


Creative Fires

by Grond



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Artistic Sensibilities, Beginnings, Corruption, Creation, Disappointment, Early in Canon, Enemies to Lovers, First War with Melkor, M/M, Maiar, Meet-Cute, Melkor causes problems for everyone, Melkor is irritating, Middle Earth, Mountains, Music, Nature, Nature Magic, Problems, Queerplatonic Relationships, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spirits, The Seduction of Mairon, The Valar, Villains, Workplace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25365697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grond/pseuds/Grond
Summary: Mairon has always been loyal to Aulë. He prides himself on behaving with the utmost propriety. He rarely makes errors, in his work or otherwise. When Curumo asks for his assistance in solving a problem without Aulë's knowledge, Mairon sees no harm in helping him.Yet Mairon faltered once in the past, and he is about to make another mistake. When they encounter Melkor, the consequences seem small at first, but they will increase a thousandfold.A story about artistic expression and bad choices.
Relationships: Aulë | Mahal & Sauron | Mairon, Eönwë & Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon, Saruman | Curunír & Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 39
Kudos: 67





	1. Fallen Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> **Edited 2/20/21:** I shifted the time period of the story. It now takes place during the First War with Melkor, before the Years of the Lamps.

Mairon was joyful in his work. Smiling, he raised his hammer. When he brought it down, sparks flew up, shimmering like stars. Contentment sent light flickering across his skin in waves of living fire. Pleasure burned dark gold in his eyes, his hair flaming red. Beneath his blows, molten stone shuddered and swirled: a mountain in the making. Mairon put his head back and raised his voice in song. He loved singing in the forge. The vibrations born from his bright hammer as it struck were themselves a style of song. His companions, fellow Maiar of fire, sang with him, their music swirling around his own, accentuating and supporting it as they worked together. At the best of times, the forge was not a quiet place. It was bright and full of music.

Mairon began his labors intending to work for a significant span of time. He did not tire easily, fed by his master's power and the heat of the flames. He rarely paused, abstaining from the briefest respite. 

An interruption came far too soon for his liking. He had labored for a mere few minutes when a voice called out to him amidst the thunder of the forge. "Mairon, I have need of you." The words sounded in his mind as well as in his ears.

Mairon did not respond. His work was in a sensitive phase, and abandoning it now would mean he would have to start again later, from the beginning. That would waste of time and labor. He hoped that if he said nothing, his tacit refusal would be understood. He would be left in peace. 

He was incorrect. The call shortly came again. "Mairon, come to me! I need you. Please."

Mairon turned, his song ceasing. Curumo waited for him at the entrance to the forge, beckoning. What was urgent enough to inspire him to call so insistently? Curumo knew him well enough to understand he preferred not to be disturbed while working. Curumo was also unlikely to continue to summon him for a frivolous reason. As their master was away from the forge, it would be sensible for him to appeal to Mairon's expertise, if he needed assistance.

There was one sure way to solve the puzzle of his behavior. Mairon lowered his hammer. Setting his work aside, he abandoned his solid form, flowing across space in a streak of light, crossing the broad forge in a moment. He had flesh only in the sense that he could take on a visible form. He was energy contained in a variable shape. He was tangible when he willed it, though his surface was hot and changeable. He reformed at Curumo's side. "What is the matter? You can see I am occupied." The words should not have been necessary, but Curumo seemed to need the reminder.

"I know it, but come with me." Curumo reached out to lay his palm on Mairon's hand. Mairon tilted his head, thoughtful, as Curumo's resolution permeated his form. Relenting, he allowed Curumo to lead him from the forge's glowing heat. Curumo resembled him, in that they were both spirits of fire. The two of them could flow into and out of each other like flames within a single conflagration. The same was true of all their kindred. In the Beginning, they had done so constantly. Once they had cooled slightly, they had begun to take on separate forms and names. Their names were not chosen by them or by their master, but arose from the force of creation itself, as it shaped them and allowed them to shape in turn. 

"What has concerned you enough that you must take me from my task?" Mairon asked. He tried to keep his tone even.

Curumo sensed his hint of criticism, for he paused before he replied, "The mountains have been destroyed."

"Which mountains?" Mairon could guess at the specifics, but they had by this point created a number of mountain ranges, and there were yet more to be made. Arda was vast and varied, and it would become ever more varied as they shaped it with their hammers and heat. 

"Those in the extreme west, which ran down into the sea and stood among the waves. I heard it from the Maiar of the air, who saw it from a distance."

"Destroyed already? We completed the range so recently." Considering their recent experiences, Mairon wasn't incredulous so much as infuriated.

"They were so far north," answered Curumo.

"Yes. North." Mairon understood his meaning. The Enemy walked wherever in the world he would, whenever he chose, but it was to the north he retreated when confronted by the Valar. Whatever lay nearest to him was most likely to catch his attention. He devastated and marred the work of both Valar and Maiar, without pause. He appeared to do little else. Why had he entered Arda, if he only intended to make a ruin of it? He desired to be the lord of all the Valar, but no one would choose to follow someone who was a font of disrespect and a constant disruption. 

Repairing the damage done by the Enemy meant Mairon would have to redo his earlier efforts. He hated treading a path he had already walked. He wanted the work carried out smoothly and well, for their creations to endure and to prosper. That was the wish of any creative Maia, a wish the Enemy delighted in thwarting.

"If they have been unmade, we must tell Aulë at once," said Mairon. His master, the Vala Aulë, was a great maker, and the heat of his fire was the heat of emergence, of creation. Mairon bore that same fire within him. From the first moment of his existence, he had known Aulë's love. He loved to serve him and live in his grace. 

"Of course we must tell Aulë, and we will, but he is occupied elsewhere." Curumo shook his head. "It will distress him to hear of it. If we deal with the problem ourselves beforehand, the matter will not be so great or so distressing."

"Do you think so?" Aulë was understandably angered by the destructive actions of the Enemy. His anger had grown with time, and his patience had dwindled. Again and again, the creations they planned and made were obliterated, rendering their work meaningless. Their efforts might stand for years, but eventually, an attack would come. They had labored tirelessly since entering Arda, and the work had progressed so little. It disheartened and aggravated all of them, but within Aulë the frustration of his Maiar pooled and heated. Aulë carried their burdens along with their joys. 

Mairon looked at Curumo, who was shining so brightly. His intentions were good. He was as eager to see and to help as Mairon was. "We should see what was done," Curumo suggested. "Perhaps it can be salvaged."

It was clear to Mairon, again, what Curumo meant. If they were to begin work on the reconstruction, Aulë could be told after the fact. With much of the damage already undone, it would distress him less. It was not a matter of deceiving Aulë, so much as redirecting his dismay to a different point, as they would redirect the course of a river, to guide its waters to where they would do the greatest good.

Mairon analyzed the situation without further inquiry. Curumo had been the last one at the mountain range, making the final small additions to their shaping of the earth. Curumo, then, saw himself as linked with the Enemy's evil. Aulë would never blame him for the damage, for no Maia could stand against the force of the Enemy. It was best to retreat if confronted by him, yet Curumo would see this incident as losing face. Curumo wanted Aulë to admire him, and he did not want to be associated with failure. He wanted to be seen as clever and successful. Curumo's name meant _cunning_ , which reflected his desire.

Mairon's name meant _admirable_ , and he did wish to be admired, but he was also _admiring_. He lived in praise. His greatest joy lay in assisting his master in his works and celebrating his master's name. His own name had never struck him as a strict necessity, but he wove it into songs that honored Aulë and his wisdom, skill, and compassion. Mairon's compassion extended to Curumo. Curumo admired him, so he had appealed to him for his aid.

Mairon had long been eager to prove himself by working independently. This struck him as an opportunity. Their master was currently elsewhere on Almaren, in conversation with Manwë and Varda. Lady Yavanna was with him. If Aulë had been present, Mairon would have been reluctant to do as Curumo suggested, but there was a logic in leaving Aulë undisturbed. Ordinarily, the proper procedure would have been to inform Aulë, but in this special circumstance, they could assess and repair first. They could make a complete report and allay any doubts.

Interrupting Aulë's business with the other Valar or waiting for his return would delay the necessary recovery work. It would be better if he returned to find his Maiar had the matter in hand. "As our master is occupied, I don't see why we shouldn't deal with this ourselves, first. It would be best to assess the extent of the damage and take first steps. You shouldn't go alone, if the Enemy is still abroad in that region."

"Exactly. I knew you would understand."

"Of course I do." Mairon detested the disorder of the Enemy. The sooner his act of spite was undone, the better it would be for all of them. The placement of this particular mountain range was important, where future weather patterns were concerned. They had to always keep in mind the health and safety of Lady Yavanna's living beings. "As you understand me."

They understood each other, because they were alike. Along with names, Mairon and his kin had developed their own interests and impulses throughout their time in Arda, but their work as a whole did not diverge, remaining part of the same great plan. It was a vision that had been sung into being by Eru Ilúvatar in the first of all songs. The Maiar of the forges labored as one to make that vision a physical reality, but each had parts of the work that appealed most to them. 

Mairon enjoyed extremities. He was drawn to the mountain heights and the depths of the earth. The limits of creation drew him. He most liked to scale peaks and perch among the clouds, or to descend to secret reaches where he discovered hidden lakes and rivers of fire, burning unknown to those above them. These excursions did not take him away from his work, but were part of it. He and his kindred were tasked with shaping and understanding all aspects of earth, metal, and stone. Mairon labored in his master's forge, but some of his most important work was carried out away from it, seeking and gathering. He would shape the world as he went, if his master willed it, pressing fingers of flame into the solid surface of Arda's skin. He knew the world well enough that he could travel across it almost as easily as one of the Valar.

Mairon and Curumo left their home without further discussion, having understood each other so well. They traveled swiftly as spirits, like bright bolts through the sky, to the coast where they had recently completed their newest mountain range. The earth was lightly cloaked in a gently glowing mist, but it was not thick or tall enough to hide the evidence of the Enemy's work.

The devastation before them was exceptional. The once towering mountains would more properly be termed rubble, nothing but widely scattered chunks of stone. They had been tossed far across the land and into the sea. A number of the broken pieces rose among the waves as jagged, lifeless islands. They were unlovely and accusatory, as if angered that they had not been protected from this outrage.

The sight was too familiar. Whenever Mairon came across an area that was rent or scorched or twisted or otherwise made misshapen—or unmade altogether—he would pause to repair it, if he had time and ability. He did not understand the designs of the Enemy, or their purpose, other than to frustrate Aulë and his fires, and to spite the rest of the Valar. The Enemy appeared to destroy for the joy of it, but what joy could be found in destruction? Far better to create order and harmony than this—this was useless. What could chaos benefit anyone? It was unpleasant, lacking harmony and rhythm. 

The call of the sea was plaintive. Even the wind and waves sounded bereft, disturbed and disordered by the destruction. In the distance, birds called. Mairon shuddered, as if a breeze stirred his flames.

"What did you see?" Curumo asked, noting the change in him.

Mairon turned away from the sea to face Curumo. "Nothing, save this destruction," said Mairon. He had not seen anything other than the ruin of their work, but a memory had risen toward him from the sea. 

He remembered the deep current of the Enemy's music running through the Great Song. It had been both low and high, rumbling like thunder, cracking like breaking stone, yet shrieking like a wind. It had been everything jarring and broken and strange and unsatisfied, combined in a single assault. Hearing it had been excruciating, bewildering, and maddening. 

Mairon had continued to sing through the cacophony along with the other faithful Maiar, attempting to drown out the discord and weather the storm of it. Their effort had been dauntless, but the unpredictable, disorderly nature of the song had been so baffling that for an instant, Mairon had hesitated in his singing. He had not joined in with the Enemy or been intrigued by his song. He had listened in pure disapprobation. As if, by hearing the music, he could better criticize it. It was not admirable that he had ceased his singing, if for the briefest moment and the most understandable reason. 

He had never mentioned his lapse, and no one seemed to have noticed—they may not have considered it an error, if they had—but Mairon had not forgotten it. He could not deny that for a short time, he had stood still and listened to Melkor's song. The memory was an irritant: a brief but undeniable pause he could not entirely erase from his thoughts.

He banished it for now. There was work to be done. Work kept his mind clear. He had no shortage of ideas of what to make and how. Carrying out these plans was an absorbing pleasure. Moving stones that were so far scattered was not an easy task, but not impossible. He and Curumo were made for such work. Beneath their hands, the mountains began to rise again, and the fallen stones rolled home toward the shore. Starlight fell gently down upon their endeavor, blessing it with luminance. They would be able to make much headway before telling Aulë of their troubles.

The labors of Mairon and Curumo had filled the air with heat, but Mairon felt unusually cold. He turned and gazed out over the sea again, its dark, shifting water touched with foam. At the beginning of their labors, he had seen nothing there save the undisturbed horizon. As he looked again, a figure towered over the water's surface, taller than the mountains that had been felled. 

Dark as a storm cloud, it crackled with lightning. Darkness and electricity emanated from it, making the air around it both dark and bright. Mairon stilled. He sensed Curumo had done the same beside him. The immense form kept its back to them as it strode through the ocean waters. Mairon experienced a sense of overwhelming dread. The Enemy could not destroy a Maia utterly, but he could do a great deal of damage. His presence alone was corruption. It was a poison to any spirit. The sight of him chilled Mairon's flames.

_Melkor_. It was a name he tried to keep from his mind, but within sight of him, it took an incredible effort to do so, nearly impossible to think of anything _but_ that name.

As Mairon watched, the giant figure slowly began to turn. Its head was in the sky, so far above them, but its gaze went immediately to the two bright figures on the shore. Mairon felt that terrible attention fix itself upon him. The scrutiny was like a physical weight, pressing down on him with such force that he struggled to remain standing. Mairon heard it again: that music, grating and discordant and vast. As he stared at Melkor, he watched the darkness of his hands and hair in the process of disintegrating, only to reform again instantly, a constant cycle of decay and growth, leaving the air around him thick and dark with pieces of his being. "Curumo—"

"We must go." Curumo sensed Mairon's thought before he had fully voiced it and grasped his hand, flame flowing into flame.

This was why they informed Aulë when such difficulties arose. Problems resulting from the Enemy's work had a way of persisting, and Melkor was unlikely to confront Aulë directly. Melkor was more powerful than any of the other Valar, but a direct confrontation might have brought the wrath of all the Valar upon him. Surely that would give him pause, although it was difficult to know what Melkor might be thinking, as none were in his confidence.

"I know. I cannot—" Mairon could not move. Attacking Aulë's Maiar would risk the disapprobation and retribution of the Valar, but that did not mean that Melkor would refrain from trying. He could not be predicted, that was part of the problem. Mairon's dread grew. He was unused to such weakness, but Melkor's very presence was draining him where he stood.

Curumo's power flowed into him, and Mairon flowed into Curumo. In union, they were stronger, concentrating their power. With a surge of flame, they finally broke free from Melkor's pressure, speeding away from the shore and toward home. "I was wrong," Curumo was saying. "I should not have asked you to go. You were right. I had thought—"

Mairon heard him speak, but he barely listened to him as they flew. He did not remember having been right, as much as he prided himself on being correct. He had not convinced Curumo to wait for their master, as he should have. In his mind, he still heard the rush and shriek of the Enemy's horrible music, and he saw those vast staring eyes, strangely shining like silver, although they were completely black. When they were within view of home, Mairon saw the bright shore and the calm comforts of familiar terrain, but he also saw the vision of a shadowy figure looming over the dark sea.

As they neared the forges, that vision was burned away by the sight of another figure: tall and broad and warm with flame. Mairon's spirits rose, and he felt Curumo's gladness rising. Aulë had returned. He was waiting for them. He opened his great arms, and they flew into his embrace.


	2. Rising Peaks

"Mairon, Curumo, what were you thinking?" Aulë's deep voice held no note of discord, only earth and fire and the striking of hammers.

What was Mairon thinking? He had been thinking of what would be most expedient in their situation. He had been thinking of the mountains remade and the work triumphantly completed. He had been thinking of Curumo and his request, and of avoiding their master's displeasure, for their master's sake. "My lord, we did not wish to trouble you. Curumo and I wished to assess and mitigate the damage as much as we could." He did not mention that it had been Curumo's idea. What would the point have been in that? They had both taken the same action and the same risk. 

By his side, Curumo lowered his head respectfully; his expression was both grateful and contrite.

"I see. So you did. And that was well-thought, but the result was not what you'd hoped."

The instant Aulë had taken them in his arms, they'd felt refreshed, and their fear had fallen away from them. They had been cleansed of the dread of the Enemy. As Aulë's Maiar, they could depend on him in this, as in all things. Strength surged within them, fueled by his fires. It was both dreadful and dishonorable to have been put to flight by the Enemy, but in the end, there had been no true harm done.

Mairon and Curumo were not precisely reprimanded for their actions, but they were obligated to listen to a lengthy speech on the subjects of caution and danger and following instructions. Mairon had already known very well all that Aulë told them, but he understood why he had to listen again. He did not enjoy being taught what he already knew, but he could bear it gracefully. He and Curumo were safe, but in trying to work alone and in secret, and they had knowingly put themselves in a dangerous situation.

"You understand that I do not wish you to be harmed," said Aulë, as his talk wound to a close. "That is all. My concern for you moves me most."

"I do understand it," said Mairon, as Curumo echoed his sentiments.

Aulë's tone softened. "I am as angry as you that our labors were undone. But more than that, I'm glad to see my Maiar safe. You know what our Enemy can do."

"Yes, my lord," the two Maiar chorused. They had all heard tales of the Maiar who had fallen afoul of the Enemy and suffered from his violence, as well as those who had been poisoned through mere proximity to his corruption. As terrible were the tales of those Maiar who served him, who had been so utterly changed by their love of his song. It was rumored that Melkor desired more Maiar of his own, but no one knew how he meant to gain them, for Melkor's deceit was insidious and hidden. He was chaotic, but he could be cunning, and all Maiar had been told not to underestimate him. The Valar were at war with him, and there were few places on Arda that were safe from his incursions.

This bright land, where the Valar had gathered, was a sanctuary. Melkor did not attack here, for the combined might of the Valar was enough to hold him at bay, if barely. Here, the Valar had made their home. Because of the war, they did not stray far from each other, save for Ulmo, who resided in the sea and traveled throughout its waters at will.

"We will let those mountains lie where they fell a while longer." As Aulë spoke, his gaze drifted toward the northwest, and his expression darkened. Mairon could feel the suppressed tremor of his rage. Aulë's resentment toward the Enemy was familiar to all Aulë's Maiar. He and the Enemy were always at odds. The Enemy took such delight in destroying Aulë's works, and those of the Lady Yavanna. Aulë would have preferred to take on the Enemy in combat, to defeat him decisively and put an end to his destruction. Other Valar counseled patience—Manwë chief among them.

Mairon agreed with Aulë, and not because he served him. It made more sense to combat the damage to their works at its source. Mairon could imagine what they would have already accomplished if they had not been interrupted and forced to undo malicious damage at every turn. So many times, they had brought a great work almost to completion, only to see it crash down. The Enemy's power was destruction. He did not truly create; he mangled others' creations. What was the purpose of unmaking without creating something to take the place of that which was gone? The idea was bewildering to Mairon. Arda could finally flourish once the Enemy was banished. He hoped the other Valar would see Aulë's reason, in the end.

"We will rebuild again, but when the time is right," said Aulë. "There are some I must speak to, first." Mairon did not doubt that he wished to inform the other Valar of Melkor's actions. They might not engage him in open combat, but they did keep careful track of his presence and his acts of animosity.

"I apologize—it was my idea," said Curumo, once Aulë had departed. "Yet you were lectured to alongside me."

"I chose to join you of my own volition." While Mairon disliked being seen to fall short in any way, he could not deny that it had been his choice to go. "So I faced the consequences." At the time, it had seemed a reasonable risk, with a chance of reward. He turned away from Curumo, facing the fallen mountains, as Aulë had. He still would have liked to return there and continue their work. He hated to leave a labor unfinished, or admit defeat, but he knew the dangers too well. He may have had a lapse in judgment, but he never would defy Aulë so directly. Aulë's orders had been clear.

Their work soon returned to normal. There was no noticeable disruption in the forge. All learned of the sad fate of their latest mountain range, but the news inspired the Maiar of the forges to work harder and create more to make up for the loss. Mairon was glad to join them, to be of one mind and one goal with them, united in the will to bring the Creator's Song into being. They sang together, and their singing made the work and their spirits lighter. The ignominy of Mairon's flight from the shore with Curumo faded and no longer troubled him, but he could not entirely erase his memory of the sight of Melkor, towering over the sea in all his might. Mairon's wish to make those mountains rise again also lingered.

When he was not working or singing with his fellow Maiar, one of Mairon's favorite pursuits was exploration. He departed from the forge and ventured out to seek the heights and depths of Arda. Aulë and his Maiar were shaping Arda, but the Creator had also shaped it beforehand and had left wonders there for them to find. It was one of Mairon's duties to seek out stones and minerals and other materials the Maiar could use or learn from. It was not merely a duty; it was a source of joy. To find something that no other Ainu had seen before gave him a quiet thrill—holding in his hands a piece of creation that was known only to him and to the Creator.

He told Aulë where he would be going, and he did not stray too far. Ordinarily, he wandered alone without incident. Traveling in spirit form, he was not so vulnerable or visible as he was when he took on a shape and used his power. However, there were times, particularly in the depths unfathomably far below Arda's surface, that he felt himself observed. He paused and noted the feeling, but assigned it little weight. There were untold numbers of other beings in existence yet unknown to Mairon. The world held manifold mysteries, signs of Eru's great love and vast imagining. Mairon knew the Ainur he lived among, but he had not learned the names and natures of all who existed. He had no reason to assume any particular presence meant him harm, especially when it showed no aggression and did not so much as draw near him. He did wonder what or who might choose to watch him, and why, but he was too focused on his exploration to worry or investigate.

If Mairon was ever distracted from the greater work, it was not by unknown entities, but by his own thoughts. Curious, he studied every place and every object with intent. He asked himself why it existed as it was, how it might be reshaped, how it could be made more useful or more beautiful. On his journeys, he saw much of the raw, unshaped world, and he developed ideas about how it might be formed in the future. A great portion of the land remained rough and muddled, or unfixed in place. Mairon did not know all Eru's plans for these regions, but he could see in them potential waiting for a will to realize it. He had grown so used to molding such land for his master's sake that his own ideas about its future leapt to him unbidden, as if forged in his personal internal fire. 

His thoughts drove him farther afield. Maybe he should not have gone so far, but if he was not drawing attention to himself by materializing or crafting, the risk was so much less. It was not disobedience; these acts lay within the scope of his duties. He wanted to see more and do more, constantly. 

As unobtrusive as he was, Mairon could not shake the feeling that he was observed, and the feeling troubled him more frequently. Eventually, he sensed it not only in the depths, but upon the heights. Whenever it occurred, Mairon would pause and seek, but he spied no sign of his observer. Was it simply the Creator's eye, or Manwë's regard, falling upon him? 

He was not sure, but as time passed, he found more to puzzle him. Here and there, Mairon began to discover unnamed and unknown landmarks—distinct locations not raw, not ruined, but deliberately crafted—that he could sense had been shaped without Eru's initial will or Aulë's willful hand. Who had made them, and why? Why had Mairon never seen their like before? Initially, Mairon did not appreciate the look of them, as they were messy and not in harmony with the landscapes they inhabited. Yet the more of them he saw, the more he appreciated that they had a striking quality that made them interesting, if not pleasant.

During one northward journey, Mairon was struck by the sight of a bizarrely tall and crooked peak silhouetted against the sky. It was perfectly dark. It did not reflect light. The glow of the soft, luminous mist that filled the world and the stars that shed light from above did not light it, but accentuated its darkness, making its unique shape more clear. The great, black, angular mass stood in sharp contrast to the soft illumination surrounding it. Mairon sat and gazed for a long while at that mountain, trying to determine what aspect of it so fascinated and so troubled him. It was like other mountains he had seen before, yet unlike. As he stared at it, he was inspired to ask, _Why should there be a limit to a mountain?_

Once new thoughts and images had taken root in Mairon, further questions formed more quickly as he explored: _What if this mountain were taller yet, or sharper, or had a forked shape? Or, What if this chasm were deeper or more jagged?_ They were mere thoughts, so he found no harm in them. The sense of extremes that held his interest stealthily expanded. Was it wrong, to have his own preferences? He did not see how it could be wrong. 

Slowly, these ideas crept into his work at the forge. His preferences creepingly manifested themselves in angles and lines, and began to appear in his creations by degrees. At first, the distinction was barely noticeable, as Mairon's thoughts were unconsciously embodied in a shift or a sheen. The Maiar made so many things, shaping vast swaths of earth as well as smaller features. It was not as if one little variation made a large difference, but many little variations over time began to embolden Mairon. He asked, _Why should I not make this sharper? Or steeper? Or brighter? Or broader?_ He saw the plans that Aulë projected into their minds, and he saw how they could be altered. It did no harm, and in the end, the changes he made were not so great. They did no harm to the vision as a whole.

Individualism had never affected the works of any of Aulë's Maia before, so Mairon had not thought to guard against it or to check himself. When Aulë sought him out, he did not suspect that anything could be wrong. 

"Mairon." The thunder of his master's voice was like a hammer striking an anvil, and Mairon stilled at the sound of his name echoing through the forge and beyond, into the valley. At the sound, the forge's industrious workers stilled, but once Mairon's fellow Maiar realized they were not being called, they shortly returned to their labors. It was Mairon alone who lowered his hammer.

"Yes, my lord."

Aulë did not seem displeased. His gaze was warm and his fires welcoming. "Come, walk with me."

It was not unheard of to be called away by Aulë without warning, but it was not usual. Mairon felt no trepidation, but he did wonder why he had been singled out. He followed Aulë, passing from the flickering light of the forges and out into the softer light of the stars. Yet that was not the end of their journey.

Aulë could cross vast distances in a moment, moving far more quickly than a Maia could, and he could take his Maiar with him when he moved. In an instant, the two of them stood together on a broad plain, beside the rolling foothills of a tall mountain range. Mairon knew this place well. They had made many of the separate elements of this landscape in the forge, before transferring them to the site. More work had been completed here, to form all the carefully crafted parts into one greater whole, smoothing the edges and making the final touches that would turn their labors into a true environment, wild and ready to hold and nurture life in all its forms. Mairon had not created all of these mountains, the hills, or the entirety of this plain. However, he had done much of the work on this small part of the world where they stood: some of it alone, and some while supervising the others who had worked with him. He would take on his share of the labors and then some more, whenever he could.

"Tell me," said Aulë, "what was done here?"

Mairon considered his work. He considered the plan he had memorized before beginning. He knew what Aulë wanted him to say. He had made the plain more rough here than was called for, and the mountains above it were too high. At the time of making, the textures and the angles had appealed to him. He could see at once what his mistakes would mean, once weather and time were taken into consideration. The mountain would shadow the plain and present an obstacle to rainclouds. The rocky ground would make Lady Yavanna's plants struggle to grow. The changes were subtle, but in their small ways, they would make the plain a harsher place than it needed to be. Silent, Mairon considered the extent and meaning of his mistake.

"What have you wrought here?" asked Aulë.

Mairon hesitated, and he did not know why he would hesitate. His master had asked a question that should be answered. "What was asked, my lord. I made the plain here, and the hills and mountains."

Aulë's eyes were fiery, but not with rage. They burned with concern. "I do not recall that I told you to make that slope so steep. The hills so hard. Or the plain so stony."

Aulë waited. Mairon knew another response was called for, but he was momentarily stunned by the unthinkable. Aulë had given him lectures before, or expounded upon techniques for him, usually when he was in the company of his fellow Maiar. He had never _corrected_ him like this, on an individual basis. Mairon had never been told that a portion his work had been a _mistake_. "No, you did not," he was forced to agree, once he regained the power of speech. "I acted in error."

Aulë did not reprimand or question him. He nodded, as if pleased by this admission, then reminded him of the original dimensions that had been requested. There was no blame or irritation in his tone. His great voice held a note of gentleness that stung more than a rebuke could have. 

Mairon had been wrong. "Allow me to fix it, my lord."

"I ask for nothing more from you, Mairon," said Aulë. He smiled again, but there was a thoughtfulness in his gaze. "I have only asked for your help, if you are willing to offer it."

"I am glad to—I want nothing more than that, Lord Aulë."

"I am glad of that, as well."

Mairon did not need to be instructed again. He made the corrections, without complaint or further mistake. He did not allow himself to rest until he had finished. No more exploring and contemplating, until he was finished making things right. He was a Maia with the honor and pleasure of serving a Vala of Aulë's skill and strength. He would follow the plans for the good of all. The world Eru had envisioned was so beautiful, it was a blessing to be able to bring it into being.

When Mairon was done, Aulë looked out over the plain and sighed contentedly at the smooth expanse of it, the soil lying ready for seeds, running up into the foothills that would teem with flora and fauna. So many beings would flourish here, when the time came, and all Yavanna's preparations were ready. The First Children would live here, and it was important that all the preparations were complete before they awakened. Mairon wanted them to love the world as much as he did. He had not forgotten the satisfying sight of his rough plain of bristling dark rocks, but he understood why it had not been called for. It was simply sweet to hold the texture and the shadows in his mind.

Mairon did not make the same mistakes twice, but his memory of being told to change his work and correct himself was keen. It came as no surprise that he was meant to follow his master's plan and no other, but he asked himself why the ideas had come into his head, if they were not meant to be there. 

He did not allow his preference to manifest in his work for Aulë again, but he did not extinguish his own vision. It was unlike his master's, diverging into sharpness and embellishment. These qualities must have been part of his nature, so he did not put them away. He kept them close. His master had not told him to do otherwise. He would gaze at a mountain range and imagine the silhouette he would have given it, if he had full control over the making of it. He felt the force of his fire welling up in him, giving him the will to create. He enjoyed the images he conjured in his mind, but they were as galling as they were pleasing, because he knew they would not come to be.

Mairon was not the first person in creation to be frustrated by the difference between his vision and reality, and he would not be the last, but it was a new, unsettling experience for him. Even if these ideas were in his nature, a Maia was made for praise and service, so his wish to do something other than serve was outside of his nature. How could his vision be both natural and unnatural?

Mairon might have attempted to discuss the question with his master, but he hadn't enjoyed being corrected, and he didn't wish to experience that again. He wished to be seen as disciplined, precise, and accomplished: an excellent servant who was invaluable to Aulë. How could he reconcile his longing to excel in his tasks with his vision? None of his brothers had ever hinted that they faced such a dilemma, not even when faced with Mairon's own hinting. Not even Curumo responded to Mairon's subtle attempts to detect a spark of fellow-feeling. No, his siblings appeared content to work as they always had. They had no dreams that conflicted with Aulë's plans. Mairon knew he and his fellow Maiar were individuals, but he had never before had the thought that they might be _unlike_ him. Where had that idea come from? Was it disloyal of him to harbor it?

To make up for his discontent and uncertainty, Mairon—already driven and industrious—was determined to work harder and more efficiently than before. He threw himself into toil. He would answer doubt with diligence. That was the mark of a true servant. Their work could be accomplished with more speed, without sacrificing accuracy. Mairon was the one who realized how it could be done. He burned hotter and brighter, quickening his pace while sharpening his focus. He began devising a new process. He could reform and improve the very basis of Aulë's creation. If he could not shape the crags and caves he dreamed of, he might win satisfaction and praise another way: in innovation. 

Other Maiar had been given grand roles by their masters, like his friend Eönwë, who had been named Manwë's herald. In Mairon's mind, Eönwë had been elevated among Maiar and set apart. What if Aulë were to select a herald of his own, or make one of the Maiar who labored for him chief among the others—a forgemaster, for instance? The forge could use an authority to guide the when Aulë was occupied elsewhere. Mairon could take that role. He would excel at it. The other Maiar already looked to him for guidance or aid in Aulë's absence. Hadn't Curumo done that, when the mountains had been destroyed? It had been bad luck and the Enemy's malice that had ended their endeavor with misfortune.

Mairon spent more time at the forge than any of his brothers, and would work on alone when he deemed it necessary. Unfortunately, the harder he worked for his master, the more clearly he could see the world as _he_ would make it. As he grew in strength, certainty, and speed, he could better understand the many ways he could apply his fires. The intensity of his efforts tempered his other intensities. His flames attained greater heights of temperature. There was no need for him to stop working. He would make up for his failings—but the more he labored to make up for them, the more they plague him internally.

While Aulë came to him again, Mairon noticed his presence peripherally. Aulë did not bid him to pause, at first. He waited at Mairon's side for a long while, watching him work. Mairon did not know whether to expect praise or chastisement, so he continued at his demanding pace, to show his master what he was capable of.

Aulë's voice was so resonant, Mairon heard its first vibrations before Aulë had begun to speak. "Why do you hurry so?" asked Aulë at last. "What goal do you work to meet?"

Mairon had no wish to deny his master an answer, so he spoke with no hesitation. He stilled his hands, sensing that was his master's will. "The goal of our work."

"Our work requires no rush, but care and patience and thought. We have no schedule. Eru alone knows what will be, and when."

"Yet what need is there to delay, when I can move at this pace?"

"Your brothers do not move so quickly, Mairon. Your labors require harmony more than speed. The spirit of the creation matters as much as the form." 

Mairon sensed he was being corrected again, and was silent.

"Your flame is very bright and very hot," said Aulë.

"Is that not what a flame should be?"

"It is, but a controlled flame is useful as well, and a flame that burns too hot can burn itself out."

In his heart, Mairon felt affront. Mairon was not impatient. He was industrious, obedient. It was Aulë who had been impatient and had earned Eru's rebuke for making his own children without permission. Mairon was _efficient_. If his brothers were slower, they could quicken their pace to come into harmony with him and understand his heat. They needed to learn his ways, but he would teach them. 

He did not speak his thoughts to Aulë. He pulled back his fire, obediently, keeping himself under control. Affront was not an emotion he should harbor, especially not toward his master. He should praise his master and not question him.

"You have great power and ingenuity." Aulë stretched out his fingers so they brushed Mairon's fire. Mairon felt his energy start to flow into his master, at that mere touch. "I have marked it. Do not think that I seek to stifle you."

Mairon remembered how other Maiar with power and ingenuity had been honored, but he did not mention this. He felt pleasure at lending his power to Aulë, as he always did, yet within that pleasure was a trace impurity. A small part of him balked at sharing of himself when his efforts were not fully appreciated: a grain of reluctance forming within his praise. Mairon looked to his master, expecting Aulë would sense the resistance in him and address it. He craved to be released from this new and unwelcome discontent. Aulë did not speak of it. Instead, he said, "Trust in me, Mairon. I will show you the dream within the earth. We will rejoice in it together. Your power will be put to great use."

So it would. He did not doubt that. He still had faith in Aulë's greatness. 

"It is because of your strength that I wish you to aid me," Aulë added.

"My strength is yours to command, Lord."

"And I am glad of it." Aulë did not speak of Mairon's small, yet distinct, unhappiness, but Mairon felt the warmth radiating from his master, and he was relieved to feel improved in spirit. He shared himself with Aulë and felt Aulë share his own power in return, generously. "I wish to speak of you about the mountains that we made before, the range stretching out to the sea—you will remember the ones I mean."

Mairon nodded. He had not forgotten, and would never forget, what had occurred at that mountain range, or how the great peaks had been lying in ruins for all this time. He had wondered, more than once, what had become of them. Had the Enemy left them lying there, or had he returned to do them more violence? "I do remember."

"Of course, and I would prefer that you went to tend to them, Mairon. There is much work there that needs to be done, and I have few workers so diligent."

Mairon was silent, as the meaning of the words washed over him, like the waves had washed over the remnants of the mountains by the shore. "You wish me to do so alone?"

"You and Curumo will go together. You did such fine work before. Your power and skill are great, and I know that you are equal to this task. I have thought much on this matter. I will see to it that you can work safely there. We will never abandon our labors to the Enemy." Aulë's eyes were like glowing coals. His face gave off the light of pleasure when he smiled.

"Nothing would please me more, my lord." How could Mairon not love him? He had been made to love him. Mairon returned Aulë's smile with gratitude. His master had not lost faith in him.


	3. Inland Heights

Upon their return to the coast, Mairon and Curumo found the answer to Mairon's pressing question: none of the repair work they had previously done on the range had been undone. All the broken pieces lay in exactly the same configuration, as if Melkor had lost interest in destroying their work here. It was curious. Melkor had been so near them, and he had been intent on unmaking the mountains before. What could have diverted his attention? Had he not found their work worth his efforts, or had another concern wrested his attention away? He was unpredictable, so it was impossible to guess at his reasoning, if he had reasoned at all.

Preparations had been made for Mairon and Curumo's safety. The land had been blessed by the Valar, affording them additional protection. As Aulë was keenly aware of their location, he had asked Manwë to focus his attention and the power of his winds upon the borders of the range. That alone should be enough to safeguard them, but Aulë and Yavanna, too, remained ready and watchful. If danger were to appear, aid would not take long to arrive. That was the benefit of working openly instead of secretly. 

Curumo beamed with pleasure as they stood on the shore together, surveying the site. Like Mairon, he was happy to have the opportunity to redeem himself. They would be able to finish what they started. None of Aulë's Maiar would choose to leave work incomplete, and Mairon and Curumo were more zealous than most. This area of Arda had been left untouched longer than other regions because of the Enemy's proximity and stubbornness, but they could not continue to shy away from these lands, if their greater task was to be completed. Aulë had set them this task because he had great faith in them and their abilities.

"Mairon, thank you—you said something to Aulë, didn't you?" said Curumo.

Curumo must not have been aware that he had been chastised by their master. Of course, Aulë would not have shared that with the others. Mairon preferred not to mention his lapses. "I did speak with him, but this was entirely his idea. There's no need to thank me."

"Yet I will, all the same. I'm glad we can do this together." Curumo reached out a hand to Mairon, and Mairon took it. Their forms flowed into each other, intention and energy mingling as they temporarily became one. If they were in harmony, they could work together more easily. 

"It would be better if we separate, first," Mairon suggested. It was not that he wished to avoid Curumo's company, but it struck him as more expedient to deal with the broad work of the task as a whole before focusing on the finer details together afterward. "If we begin at opposite ends and meet in the middle, we can better evaluate the range and coordinate."

Curumo did not object, but he did not agree immediately, continuing to mingle his spirit with Mairon's as he inclined his head. "And where will you go, Mairon?" 

Mairon could not help but scan the horizon for any sign of the Enemy, but he saw none. The shore was empty. The sea was smooth. The sky was clear. All was serene. A light wind stirred the sand and fanned their flames. "I will begin at the other side. Inland, to the north." 

Curumo was not watching the horizon, but kept his gaze on Mairon. "I see no reason we shouldn't do things that way—but if you meet with any obstacles, call for me. I will aid you." 

"You do the same," said Mairon, pulling back and ending their contact. Curumo had deferred to him, but he was not convinced that Curumo preferred to do things his way. Mairon did not mean their separation as a slight. He trusted Curumo to carry on with his portion of the work. He was strong enough, and Mairon could leave him to it.

Though Curumo remained on the shoreline and Mairon moved farther inland, their bond was close enough that they could communicate mind to mind. If one of them needed the other, the other would know. Yet Mairon labored in silence, alone, engaged in one of his favorite pursuits: making peaks rise toward the sky. He was so absorbed in his work that a low voice speaking behind him took him utterly by surprise.

"Aren't you busy."

Mairon spun, startled. Even as he turned his head and scrutinized the surrounding stones to locate the speaker, he saw no one. He frowned. He had not expected to meet anyone else here. He did not like the unexplained, not when everything should have an explanation. He had not recognized the voice, and he felt no trace of another Ainu's energy. If it had been Aulë, for instance, he would have sensed the familiar weight and warmth of his master's presence. Instead, he felt absolutely nothing.

"So diligent," said the voice, repeating its sentiment as if to assure him that it was still present, still defying his senses.

Was it some little spirit come to bask in his light? He did not mind that, but it should have remained respectfully silent while he was occupied. He could have continued his search for the speaker, or he could have left the area, but now he was annoyed. He would not let an unexpected, disembodied voice interrupt him for no reason. He returned to his labor, and the mountain continued to rise.

"I admire your work ethic."

Mairon pretended he hadn't heard this third restatement of the same basic idea. He focused on his efforts with a greater intensity than ever before. When his flames were hot enough, he could shape the earth with his will as if it were made of soft clay. He could shape anything. He only had to focus and have faith. 

"I don't mean to disturb you, but I couldn't help but praise such an effort."

Mairon sighed. For someone who didn't mean to be a disturbance, they were very disturbing. He wheeled around to face the voice again. This time, he found a solid person present, standing right behind him. It was a figure of about his size, with a mass of dark hair and sharp, dark eyes. Everything about this individual was dark, but there was a warmth to them as well. Not of temperature, but of color, every inch of their darkness rich and promising, as with the possibility of what lay within it. Mairon experienced a curious feeling as he looked upon them. It was the feeling of not knowing who someone was, or where they belonged. "Mairon," they said.

Mairon frowned at this familiarity. "What—"

"Isn't your name Mairon? You're one of Aulë's."

He had no reason to deny this. "Yes, that is well known."

"Have I bothered you? I was admiring your handiwork, that's all. I didn't mean to interrupt." The unfamiliar being leaned back against an outcropping of rock and smiled at him. Even their teeth were dark. Maiar were of every color, and Mairon knew many others who were dark in hue, but there was a profundity to this particular darkness that Mairon could not compare to anything he had known before.

Whenever he saw another Maia, he could instantly sense which of the Valar they had an affinity for. Whenever he saw a Vala, no matter what form they took, he could sense who they were. This was due to his connection to Aulë. The Maiar were linked through their Valar, and the Valar through their Maiar. They were all one, in a sense. Except—this spirit was not part of that union. "I have not been interrupted. I will continue my work."

"I hope you will. As I said, I'm here to watch you."

"Then watch me, and please, don't speak." _To watch him…_ It was the strangest statement, and this was already the strangest person he had ever met. Regardless, he would not let this visitation bother him. He had a task to accomplish, and he would not falter. Aulë and Yavanna were watching the coast and the skies, so he was able to work in peace on this segment of the mountain range. He had to remain diligent so as to make their efforts worthwhile, too. He returned to shaping the stone with his hands, but as the silence behind him stretched out, his perplexity got the better of him. He glanced back toward his observer.

The dark figure was gone. Mairon frowned, but what mattered most was that he was able to finish his task as effectively as possible. It had not escaped him that he might be wasting his labor again. Once he and Curumo left, the Enemy could attack the mountains in their absence, as he had before. He may have left the partially repaired ruins untouched to tempt them into this exact action—they would expend more power, and only once they were finished would he destroy the range again, to spite them and mock their efforts. Aulë would say that that was no reason for them to lose heart. They would create the vision that had been given to them in the First Song. Each mountain brought them closer to completing the range.

"Look at you." Mairon had completely finished constructing the exterior of the mountain before the voice sounded again. "Such power. Are you the first of Aulë's Maiar?"

An odd question, but Mairon answered it. "First? We don't have rank within the forge."

"Ah. I only thought—"

Mairon turned, to find that the figure had become invisible again. Mairon said sternly, "Show yourself."

"If you wish it." The figure appeared again: as dark as before, but a little larger.

The null feeling that Mairon encountered when he tried to sense this being's nature persisted. Mairon had his suspicions as to what it might mean. They had begun in the first moment, but they had solidified with each moment after that. He had no desire to engage in pleasantries. "Are you one of his Maiar?" Mairon demanded.

"Whose?" The question was asked without any particular intonation, as if innocent of Mairon's meaning.

"The Enemy."

"He wouldn't be _my_ enemy, if I were his Maia." The stranger smirked. 

"You know of whom I speak."

"Yes, I know, I know. I was joking, Mairon. Maybe I am one of his Maiar. He does have many, I've heard."

Mairon's eyes narrowed. "I will not speak to any of his servants."

"And why not? If we are both Maiar, then we are of one kind."

"We are not."

A shrug rippled down the stranger's body. "I believe so, if we are both Maiar."

That phrasing had been deliberate. "Are you a Maia, then?"

The figure smiled and leaned back again. "Call me an admirer, Mairon."

"I will not," said Mairon, sternly.

The dark being laughed. The laughter was so full of mockery and delight, that Mairon was almost amused himself, which irritated him. The laughter was like a contagion, or like a force of nature, in that it pulled on him, drawing him closer to laughing himself. There was no restraint in the sound. It spilled out of the stranger's body and became something much larger than either of them, echoing among the hollows of the ruined mountains. "Call me so or no, that is what I am."

"If you must admire me, I would request you do so in silence, and at a distance."

"Such a harsh Maia. Are you always so unyielding?" 

"Who are you?" asked Mairon in frustration. He was displeased with the stranger, but also with himself, for feeling the slightest modicum of amusement at this intrusion. 

"You know who I am already," was the response, accompanied by more laughter, though it had softened, more insidious than brash.

"Do I?"

"You spoke of me. I am him." 

"Him—?" Mairon said the word slowly, as realization dawned and his suspicion solidified completely. 

"You said you would not speak to any of my servants, but you did not say that you would not speak to me, so I do not think I am in defiance of your wishes."

Though he was like to a flame in nature, Mairon felt cold. Now that the stranger's identity was confirmed, it was obvious that it could be no one else. He had been slow to realize it, because it was unthinkable that Melkor himself would appear in such a diminished form and speak so casually and lightly. His appearance had changed drastically since Mairon had last seen him. Mairon felt no sense of power or dread from him, only—that nothingness. That blankness must be why the Valar had not realized he was here. The best course of action would be fleeing at once and calling for aid, but he did not flee. He stood transfixed, his flame so chilled that he was frozen.

"Do not be afraid, little Maia. I mean you no harm."

Mairon rankled at being referred to as _little Maia_ , but he did not yet have the presence of mind to object or to speak, still reeling from the knowledge of who stood before him. The difference between the massive figure he had glimpsed on the shore—radiating terror and electricity—and this fluid being of darkness was jarring enough to be unsettling. 

"As I said," continued Melkor, as lightly as before, "I wished to watch you work. No more. I am impressed with your talent. I have been since I spied you on the shore that day."

Melkor had not only seen him, but had marked him as an individual and decided to seek him out again. Mairon could not make sense of it. Melkor had irritated him since the beginning of their conversation, but his tone had been bizarrely friendly, as if he genuinely wanted to engage in conversation with a Maia of Aulë. They were enemies. They were at odds. There was no reasonable scenario in which they could stand and chat amiably with each other. Why, then, did Melkor seem intent on doing so?

Despite their current relative sizes, Mairon felt small in the presence of this being of such immense power. He would never be a match for Melkor's strength or the pressure of his will. A Maia was no equal to any Vala, let alone one whose might was so far above that of any other. Resolute, Mairon gathered what strength he did have. Light blazed forth from him, the fire he held within him. He remembered, too well, all the resentment he held towards this being who so delighted in destroying their works—who thought nothing of undoing their labor or of blighting all that he touched. 

"No matter what you want," said Mairon, "you will have nothing of me. I will not speak with you, and I will not suffer you to be in my presence." Perhaps the knowledge that he could call for his master in a moment emboldened him, but through his fear and dismay, he spoke honestly.

"You will not suffer me…?" said Melkor. A note of menace had crept into his voice. For the first time, Mairon could feel the Enemy's power in the air, faint and electric.

Melkor was the world's one source of harm and chaos, and there was no known limit to the damage he could do. He had ruined other Maiar, and more than one Maia of Aulë had fallen to him. Mairon would not. He responded curtly, "I will do my master's work. You will not trouble me. Leave me in peace."

"You would command me?" Melkor stared at him, grim-faced, the electricity in the air crackling around them both. Shadows gathered, emerging from every dark place, slipping and slithering to join Melkor's darkness, enlarging him. He grew, until he was just tall enough to tower over Mairon. Melkor opened his mouth—and burst into laughter again. The sound was louder now, and more discordant—broken into a ringing like bells and a rumble like thunder. It reminded Mairon of the dissonant singing that had interrupted the First of Songs. 

Melkor continued to laugh, but the sound was merry instead of wrathful. As it had been in the very beginning, Mairon could not help but listen to Melkor's inharmonious voice, wondering how he managed to be so absolutely out of line and out of tune with everyone and everything else. "You realize, do you not, that I do not fear your master?" asked Melkor, when his discord resolved into speech again.

"I know it." Why would Melkor respect his master when he had long been so at odds with him? "But if I call for him, he will come to my aid."

"So he will." Melkor laughed a little more, as if he held so much laughter within him, he had to keep expelling it, or risk being stifled by it. "Very well, little Maia. If my presence so affronts you, then I will do as you ask."

"You—will?"

"Yes, does that surprise you?"

Mairon did not answer. He had so recently vowed not to speak with Melkor, and further speech would be in violation of his vow.

"I can be reasonable," said Melkor, but he was lying. How could there be any reason in someone who created such violence and confusion? There was no reasonable explanation for his behavior. 

Mairo's fear was no less, as he was conscious of the great harm Melkor could do to him. In this minimized form, with his being cloaked, his energy nullified, Aulë must not be able to sense his presence. Aulë would come when called, but within the instant before his arrival, what was Melkor capable of? Mairon had heard that Melkor could appear fair when he chose, but he had not imagined that someone with such arrogance and pride could minimize himself so.

"I must follow the Maia's orders," said Melkor, who was taking his time about doing so. Instead of departing immediately, he leaned in closer. "You've made me realize something. I want to know what it's like to do as I'm instructed. This one time."

Under Aulë's protection, Mairon had never known what it was like to feel fear, except that once, standing with Curumo on the shore. Having so little experience with the emotion, he had not yet learned what his reaction to it might be. He felt his flame rising. His frustration burned within him. His master's pain, and his own resentment at seeing their hard work constantly undermined, undervalued, and undone by this creature. Melkor had not earned the right to be called a Vala, so why should he give him the respect a Vala commanded? " _Then go—!_ " Mairon's flames flared, lashing out toward the dark shape.

Melkor's eyes widened, his lips parting, his shadows expanding. His expression was unguarded, a picture of pure surprise. Mairon had no idea if he would continue to exist into the next instant. Then Melkor smiled. He opened his mouth wide as if about to laugh again—and vanished. The last laughter never sounded. The mountains were silent. Mairon was alone.

Mairon placed his hand on the rough face of the mountain before him. He was shaking. At any moment, Melkor might return and punish him for his insolence. Mairon had never spoken that way to anyone before. He had never had a reason to. 

Melkor did not reappear. The silence that had fallen in the wake of his departure stretched out. There was no other sign of his presence, as if he had indeed followed Mairon's orders. Eventually, Mairon straightened. He surveyed his work. He had done so much already, but there was much left to do. He had told Melkor to leave him alone to continue his labors, but the prospect of starting again daunted him. He should—surely, he should call for his master. That would be the correct course of action.

Mairon settled both of his hands on the mountain. He had fully repaired this one. He had made certain to precisely follow the plan Aulë had laid in his mind. This mountain had become exactly what it was meant to be. He should leave it as it was. Instead, Mairon, with a burst of power, thrust his emotions into the mountain—his fear and uncertainty and anger and frustration. As his feelings surged, so did the mountain, rising higher into the sky. It became so much taller and rougher and more forceful than it was meant to be. He had made it so, of his own will. He had expressed himself in its creation. It had nothing to do with Aulë or Melkor. He continued to shape it. He made the peak twist. He made the stone shine. He ran veins of bright gold and of glittering black minerals from the base to the peak, drawing them up from deep within the earth. He made the mountain into something that was not what he had been told to make, but what he thought was beautiful.

Mairon gazed up at his new mountain. For a long time, he was transfixed. It gave him a sense of satisfaction and, bizarrely, relief. He was so far from home and the other Maiar—even Curumo. Manwë was monitoring this land, but he was searching for danger from without. It was unlikely anyone else saw this peak, unless they chanced to look his way in that moment. The mountain existed for him alone. Mairon did not want to turn away from his creation, but no matter how long he looked at it, he would not get his fill of the sight. He closed his eyes. He kept his hands pressed against the stone. He seized all the feelings and everything of himself he had put into the mountain. With a single pulse of strength, he wrenched his emotions and essence free of the rocky height and pulled them back inside himself. The mountain dwindled and dulled, until it had returned to the peak it was meant to be.

It was still beautiful, but it was no longer his. He was not meant to make his own mountains. It was his duty to create according to the plan. He _was_ meant to put himself into his work, to imbue it with his spirit and his love. He was not supposed to change the appearance or the shape of what had been intended. Creation was one harmonious whole, in service of the greater vision that he could see only a part of. He should trust in Aulë, and in Eru, and in their wisdom. 

Aulë had been allowed to keep his own creations, though he had acted wrongly in making them. Mairon had seen the creatures asking to keep their lives, so small as they huddled in the dark caves. Aulë, however, was a Vala, and he was a Maia. They were not the same. He should accept that this was the way things were, yet he could not stop himself from imagining what he might make, given true freedom. To make, not a mountain, but a living creature—what must that feel like?

"Mairon." 

HIs name was not called by a stranger's voice this time. It was a voice that was well-known and well-loved. Mairon turned, sensing at once his master's warmth and strength. "My lord," he said. 

"Are you in some distress?" 

Mairon was grateful. He was no longer alone. He went to his master's side gladly, knowing that he had been heard and seen and was cared for. Now was the time he should tell Aulë of Melkor's visit. The Valar needed to keep track of all the Enemy's movements. 

If he told Aulë the full story, Aulë would be enraged. He would again stop the work on these mountains, declaring it too dangerous, as Melkor could disguise his presence so effectively. Mairon and Curumo would not redeem themselves, and the delay would slow the work as a whole. Mairon would also have to explain why he had not called for Aulë as soon as he had realized Melkor's identity. He could not answer that question. He had been too startled initially, but then he had been curious, eager to learn more about the Enemy who had been against them since the First Song. Why shouldn't he learn as much as he could? With more knowledge of the Enemy, they could better counter his actions. 

Mairon almost said Melkor's name, but the end, the thought of saying it was too distasteful. "Do you think these mountains will be permitted to stand?" he asked instead. "We have done so much to create them, not once, but twice." 

"Is that what worried you?" Aulë's tone was tender, gentle as a voice with a sound like that of hammers and rolling stones could be. "Mairon—it may be that they will be destroyed again and again, but the making of them will never have been in vain. It matters, that they have existed. It matters, that we will do what we can to protect and cherish them. If we rebuild them, they will not be the same mountains, precisely, but they will stand in honor and memory of those who stood before. All existence requires care and love. It displeases me greatly that our works are destroyed, but that will not stop me from loving what we have made and continuing to strive. Do not allow his actions to trouble you. He will be defeated."

He did not disagree with Aulë. The mountains were dear to Mairon, as were all the works they dedicated their time and efforts to. He loved all of the world. That was why he was so eager to preserve its wonders, but more than that—he was infuriated. He had been belittled and mocked, like the mountains themselves. "Why does he behave as he does?"

"Ah." Aulë rested a hand on Mairon's shoulder, understanding his question immediately. "He wanted more than he was given, when he was given so much. He could not accept our father's blessings or his love."

"Why not? Was he not made to love him?"

"That is a good question, and I do not know the answer to it," Aulë admitted. "Why would one choose to fall away from love?"

Mairon felt heavy, as if the center of his flame had turned into stone. This was the weight of the truths he kept from Aulë. He could say it so easily: that Melkor had appeared before him and laughed. That he still dreamed of making mountains into new shapes and could not stop longing to do so. Yet—Mairon had told Melkor to leave, and he had. Mairon had constrained his own will to make embellishments. He had followed the plan. He was the master of his doubts. He was strong enough to bear them and to deal with them alone. 

"If you will it, Mairon, I can bring more Maiar here to assist you."

"No—Curumo and I should be enough. The others have their own work to do. Our interference only created more delays, and I do not want to delay any longer than necessary." 

"So industrious, always…" Aulë's tone was fond. "It is not that I doubt your abilities, or Curumo's, but I can tell that the Enemy has troubled you deeply." 

It was natural that Aulë could sense when his Maiar were troubled. He would tell Aulë of Melkor's appearance later, when this was finished. It was not that Mairon trusted Melkor's word and believed Melkor would not appear again, but if Melkor had wished to harm Mairon, he could have done so immediately. Melkor had wanted to converse with him, instead. 

If Mairon kept Melkor distracted, then his mountains would not be interfered with. He could rely on the fact that Melkor was stubborn and prideful. He would not expect that a Maia would seek to contend with him in this manner. Melkor wanted things to go his way—whether that meant he destroyed the mountains or gained a Maia, or simply angered Aulë and caused him pain. Mairon would not allow any of those things to happen. Mairon could have a task of his own, even if he had to make the mountains to another's specifications. It was simply that his work was of another kind. 

He did not intend to deceive his master. No, he was not lying to him. "I am troubled by him, but that is why I want to finish here—I cannot let him win." It was not until the world was shaped and safe for life to flourish that the Creator's vision would be realized. Once order was established, they could root out the disorder entirely. They would make the rough smooth and the unruly tame. They would solve the problem of Melkor.

Aulë touched the tips of Mairon's flame, lightly. "I know you are brave. But there is no shame in asking for help. There are things that none of us can do alone, Maia or Vala."

Mairon felt the energy of his spirit pulled into Aulë's, and then Aulë returned it tenfold. "I will ask for help, if I need it." This was not untrue, either; he did not expect to need help. 

"Good. I rely on you, Mairon. I see how the others turn to you for support and guidance. But remember, you can rely on us in turn."

He did not want Aulë to worry for his sake. That was why he had decided to carry on this conflict on his own."I will. Together, we will make the world as it was meant to be." 

"So we will." Aulë could sense his feelings, but their connection was not one way, and Aulë's growing ease was transmitted back to him. "Now, you and Curumo will return with me to refresh yourselves. We will keep this area under watch. You can resume your work once you have rested."

Mairon did not need to turn and look at the mountain behind him. It was no longer _his_ mountain, the one he had created to express his personal vision. He held the memory of his creation in his mind, where he could cherish and enjoy it. As Aulë said, it mattered that it had existed, even if it was gone. 

Aulë was correct, but was it not preferable to preserve what you had made, if you could? Mairon had not had the choice of doing so. He had destroyed his own work, as Melkor had destroyed the mountains of Eru's vision. That knowledge did not rest easy in his mind; none of this did. Usually, if he were in turmoil, he would appeal to Aulë and share his troubles with him. He could not do so now, not yet.

Soon. Once the work was finished, Aulë would understand all, and he would know why Mairon had acted as he had. Until then, Mairon would carry this burden on his own.


	4. Coastal Winds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE:** This story is temporarily on hiatus, as I have to go back and fix something in the first chapters.
> 
> I drew a header image for the story, [which you can see here, on tumblr](https://foxleycrow.tumblr.com/post/640890110490083328/fic-creative-fires-chapter-four).
> 
> Also, I finally have to admit that I don't know how long this story is going to be. It was only supposed to be two chapters, but it grew.

When Mairon next returned to the mutilated mountain range, he did not find Melkor anywhere. He remained watchful, but the Enemy made no appearance. Nor did he show himself during Mairon's next work session, nor the one following that. It was as if he had never been there, had never interfered. The mountains continued to grow and change as Mairon and Curumo's work continued uninterrupted.

That was preferable, was it not? The absence of the Enemy in that region had become so complete, it was almost as if—he had truly done as Mairon as commanded. Mairon knew that could not be the case. That was not the Enemy's way: to acquiesce. What would be his motive for doing so? He must have a goal in mind, so Mairon's position was precarious. He did not underestimate the threat. 

In the forges, they rarely spoke of the Maiar who had fallen to Melkor, but all knew the name _Valaraukar_. Those Ainur had been among the first to fall, and they too had been spirits of fire. Melkor was said to be drawn to flames, because he so selfishly coveted the Flame Imperishable. He had sought it everywhere he could think to seek, even in the hearts of Maiar, where he should not have put his hands. It was said that the Valaraukar were now so corrupted they had passed beyond reason, transformed into creatures that were more beast than Maia. Like their master, who was more monster than Vala.

He and Curumo had traveled to the mountains several times without encountering the slightest trace of the Enemy. When they arrived home again, Mairon regarded his own flames, raising his hands to scrutinize them anew. He did so each time he returned, not because he had noticed a change in himself, but because there was no harm in taking additional care. His fire burned as bright and clear as always. His thoughts were lucid. He had not noticed anything unusual, save Melkor himself.

Melkor was said to have the ability to spread his impurity through proximity, especially over extended periods of time, yet there were those who had been in contact with him who had not fallen to his degradation. His corruption was not inevitable. Mairon had not witnessed any action on Melkor's part that suggested he had attempted to warp Mairon's own nature as one of Aulë's Maiar, but he could not be certain. Mairon had begun with a strong wariness, and he would remain watchful for any decisive act of force and influence. Could Melkor's primary motivation have been amusement? Mairon could still hear his laughter, erratic and dramatic as it echoed in the hollows. 

Amusement was too innocuous a goal for him. Melkor did not engage in casual socializing with other Ainur. Mairon did not _feel_ corrupted, but what was the sensation of corruption? Did one realize when it was happening? There must be a warning sign before one was tainted beyond repair. 

"Doesn't it feel wonderful?" Curumo asked.

Mairon had been paying him the scantest attention, but this question stood out and called for a response. "What was wonderful?" 

If Curumo had noticed Mairon's lack of attention, he did not remark on it. "Creating on our own, out in the wilds. It was like having a workshop of our own, only wider. Is that what it will be like, once we've realized the Vision of Arda? Will we all have our own regions to maintain? We'll be so free and independent."

Curumo emanated excitement. He had had a very different experience from Mairon, out in the northern range. He had been left untroubled and undistracted, able to devote himself wholly to industry, as Mairon would have preferred to do. "What are you thinking of?" Curumo asked, with a sudden frown. "Is something wrong?"

"Why would anything be wrong?"

Curumo did not reply immediately, taking his time formulating an answer. "You don't have to push yourself so hard, Mairon. You shine brightly enough without it."

It was a compliment, but also a suggestion. Mairon did not have to comment on it, as Curumo did not seem suspicious so much as concerned. It would have been easy to explain away his contemplation, but he had a question of his own. "Have you ever wanted to make something—different?" Mairon had hinted at this idea before with his fellow Maiar, but never had he addressed it so directly.

"Different—from what?"

"If you could make anything at all—no plan, no map, no instructions, what would it be? If you were truly free."

"Oh, I—" Curumo struggled with his answer, and it did not come to him immediately. "Another anvil. A finer one, broad and solid as a mountain. So I could work on a grander scale. What would you make, Mairon?"

"An anvil—yes, you would say that." 

"What do you mean by that?" Curumo tilted his head, as if unsure whether he should take offense, his expression caught between a frown and a smile.

"I mean that of course you would choose practical equipment. That's to be expected of you."

"It's the most sensible choice. Without the proper tools, how can you make anything else? Why do you take issue with it?"

Mairon shook his head. "Don't be affronted. You're very sensible to say so."

"Mairon—!" Curumo shook his head, his flames flaring faintly. It was too easy to tease him. "Then what would you make?"

The memory of Melkor's music returned to him, unexpectedly. It was not the music of freedom, of creation. It represented nothing that he wanted. He had only listened to it during the Song because it had irritated and outraged him. Why did he remember it now? It belonged to no one but Melkor. It made no promise to anyone else. To take others' works and warp them made him no better than a thief and a vandal. The displeasure he felt at the memory reassured Mairon that he was not being corrupted. He found Melkor more irksome than before, not less. Melkor would solve no one's problems. He could only increase them.

He needed to answer Curumo's question. "While we're making new equipment, why not a hammer? A hammer of a new kind, a new substance, stronger and more versatile than any we have yet known."

"A hammer—yes, of course. I suspect you said that because I named an anvil."

Curumo was making an effort to tease him in return, but Mairon did not object, inclining his head agreeably. "We're supposed to work together, are we not? Our creations should be in cooperation, too."

"Typical Mairon. I say the practical thing, but you say the right thing."

"Do I?" Curumo's answer to his careful testing suggested that he was not troubled, as Mairon was. He was not imagining a world in which he could alter Creation itself, a world he could shape in accordance with his own vision. He showed no hesitation in accepting his role. Did that mean he was a more obedient Maia? "It did seem right to me, I admit, but I _would_ like to make a hammer like that."

"What would you make it from?"

"I'm not certain of that. I'd have to find the right material—or create it. And what of you and your anvil?"

"I haven't decided yet, either."

"Then we will have to put more thought into it. And when we finally have our hammer and our anvil, we can make great works together." 

"So we will!" Curumo agreed. His good cheer had returned. He spoke more about his imaginary anvil, its design, and the uses he would put it to, and Mairon listened to him more closely now. Paying attention when he was spoken to was also the right thing to do.

When they passed a group of their siblings united in singing, Curumo stepped in to enter the song, raising his voice along with theirs. Mairon paused to listen as they shared in joy and fellowship. He could have joined in as well. He was always welcome in the chorus, but he found himself in need of solitude instead, and turned away. Curumo had not shared Mairon's mindset, but Curumo had been right. Mairon had said what he'd thought Curumo would most want to hear: words chosen to please and placate. Nothing he'd said had been _false_. He did like the idea of a hammer—but it was not the full truth. Had it been wrong to answer that way? It had made Curumo happy, so he did not see the harm. 

Aulë had been clear that he wished them to rest after working. Mairon preferred industry, but he descended into the caves and sought out an empty lava pool to bask in. The warmth of the lava permeated his spirit, and he was comforted by it. His energy came from Ilúvatar and Aulë and the light of the Flame Imperishable, so the fires of the earth did not directly replenish him, but they did provide comfort and ease. He could dissolve into the fire and become one with it, experiencing its essence and that of the earth, as he did with his fellow fire Maiar. Mairon did not often allow himself moments of stillness and pleasure, so this was a rare extravagance. 

His intent was to clear his mind and know the simple pleasure of existence, free from the intrusion of disquiet. He managed to maintain serenity for brief spans of time, but his thoughts circled: waiting, persistent. They returned to tug on the edges of his mind. The jarring music of Melkor's laugh; his own omission of facts when speaking to Aulë; and the wish that would not leave him—the longing to master mountains. The more he struggled to enjoy the peace, the greater Mairon's doubts grew. Had he made the wrong choice of action? It was not that he wanted to keep secrets. It was for the good of Aulë and all his siblings that he was careful about how much he told them. To protect them. _To say the right thing_ , as Curumo had said. 

What if the right thing was _wrong?_

Mairon rose from the lava pool, too disturbed by his doubts to remain at rest. It was not too late to share all with Aulë and be cleansed. He stood hesitating, his light illuminating the cave, when a loud voice rang out like a bell in the near distance. It was a cry of pure music, clear and high, and it made the air tremble. Mairon closed his eyes to listen to it as it reverberated through the forge.

In another moment, his eyes opened again, and he flew forward, rising from the depths to the great gates that served as the main entrance to Aulë's residence. The entire complex mainly consisted of forges, with the residential areas a secondary feature. Beneath the earth lay a vast and trackless network of caves, containing more forges. Just beyond Aulë's lands, one did not have to look far in any direction to see the lush greenery of Yavanna's gardens, overflowing with the life that would one day spill out and fill the entire world.

Aulë's gates themselves were of finely worked metal, a creation of Aulë himself. Depending on Aulë's mood, they might be bright silver in color, or warm gold. The elaborate design that covered them from top to bottom showed scenes from the creation of Arda, shining and stylized, yet intricately detailed. If any Ainur gazed long enough at those gates, they were likely to find themselves within the design—which shifted slowly over time, though never when someone was watching it. 

Now, the gates were dark in hue, and before them waited figures of blue, white, and gold. One of these was much greater in size than the others, streaming with winds and clouds, crowned with flashes of light. The many eyes shining beneath the bright crown were more blue than any sky. Though Manwë could take any form, all his forms were familiar. His energy was unmistakable, and Mairon would have known him regardless. 

Among the smaller figures at Manwë's side—his Maiar—one held a streaming blue banner aloft. The gates opened for the visitors of their own accord, and Manwë and his retinue passed through. Aulë emerged from one of his workshops, raising a bright arm in welcome. Only then did Mairon venture to approach the group, maintaining his distance out of courtesy rather than caution. The appearance of Manwë was not unusual, and Manwë was not a figure to inspire fear, but Mairon rejoiced in his respect for the Valar. Respect, too, was a form of expression.

He had not yet reached the gates when he found himself caught up in a powerful gust of wind. It wrapped around him with such force that it knocked him backwards, even as its force fanned his flames and startled him into expanding—heating and almost doubling in size. This energy, too, was unmistakable. 

"Eönwë!" Mairon's voice grew along with the rest of him. He did not like to admit he could be surprised, but he could not deny it. 

Eönwë laughed, but the laughter was fond. "I saw you from a distance. I wondered if I could catch you off your guard." Manwë usually traveled with his herald. It was Eönwë's reverberating song of proclamation that had alerted Mairon to the king's presence here, but once Eönwë's primary task was done, he might be free to commune with other Maiar. If he was, it was not unusual for him to make his way to Mairon. 

"Yes, you managed it, for once," said Mairon, putting his flames back in order as Eönwë materialized, taking on the form of a tall, straight pillar of blue and silver. How respectable he looked now, nothing like the playful breeze who'd hidden himself to startle his friend.

"Oh yes—just this one time," said Eönwë mildly.

Mairon shook his head, smiling. "I did not know you and your lord were coming here," he said.

"It was not a long-planned visit, but a necessary one." 

"Necessary?" Mairon asked, glancing toward Manwë again. With his crown and his clouds, he was visible from a far distance. "What is it that brought you here?"

"There is news of the Enemy that requires a forum."

The Valar did not need to meet in person to speak with each other, but they preferred to do so to discuss matters of great import. Mairon was silent. He felt he should say something in response to that, but he did not know what to say. 

Eönwë did not remark on his silence. It was not strange to grow uneasy when the Enemy was mentioned. He and his works were a blight, and had been a source of dismay since the Ainur had first entered Arda. "For a long time, he appeared to be idle. His usual destruction and malice continued, yes, but we thought he had put his hand to no great work. Recently, we have learned that is not so."

"Not idle?" From a distance, Mairon glimpsed a surge of foaming water approaching, speeding sinuously over the dry land—Ulmo. "Then what has he been plotting? If you may speak of it." He doubted it had anything to do with him and his work among the mountains. How could it? 

Eönwë paused, as if listening. Mairon was familiar with his expression, both distant and intent. He was in conversation with his master. The pause was brief, and Eönwë soon nodded, his attention turning to Mairon. "I was sent to the far north, alone, to perform reconnaissance, as we knew so little of his intentions."

"You went alone? That is too dangerous." If Mairon understood correctly, Eönwë had gone much farther north than Mairon ever had, to the lands they had temporarily abandoned to Melkor. Melkor's ice lay over them now, an unmelting shroud. 

"I chose to go. Lord Manwë did not command me. I wanted to be the one to see. I can travel with more stealth than most, and I would rather risk myself than any other."

This was not nearly as surprising as Eönwë's earlier trick. Eönwë was both bold and practical. Mairon appreciated both traits, but the thought of his friend within Melkor's reach made his flames dim, more than his own peril had. "And what did you see there?"

"Excavations—of a size I have never seen before. I would not have believed how vast they were if I had not seen for myself the broad rents in the earth. If I had not seen his creatures moving in great numbers."

"He is building."

"He is building something immense and deep."

Mairon was silent again. Melkor was known to create—usually by polluting or twisting the creations of others—but he had never been known to create in the way Eönwë had described, not on a grand scale, or with a display of organization. He was building in secret and in earnest, coordinating his creatures. He had not made a show of it. Usually he was so fond of declaring his mayhem to cause uncertainty and misery.

"I believe it will be a stronghold, but not only that." There was ice in Eönwë's voice too. Mairon could almost feel the chill of the waste.

"What else could it be?"

"I drew as close to his excavation as I dared, so my view of it was limited. I could see that he is building forges, like your master's. And he has dug down so deep—I have never seen such a profound abyss as I saw where his forces were working among the ice."

"Forges?" Mairon asked.

"Or so it seemed to me. There were great furnaces. He is making ready."

Mairon nodded, slowly. "Then we should be ready, also."

"You hit at the heart of it. That is why the Valar are meeting. They will tell the Maiar, too. It is best we all know of the danger. The Enemy is planning for something, and we cannot say what."

Melkor's smile had been wide, and his tone light. The personality Mairon had experienced was completely at odds with what Eönwë was telling him. Melkor had appeared frivolous and unconcerned. Reason told Mairon that the Enemy was capable of so many ways of seeming and deceiving, that nothing about him could be trusted, but the effect had been so convincing. That person had not struck him as capable of the large, orchestrated effort Eönwë described. 

Mairon did not doubt Eönwë. He doubted himself. Melkor had laughed and joked and had not reacted with violence or anger to anything he had done, even when Mairon had offered him insult and anger. Why should that be? As he reflected on it, especially in the light of Eönwë's tidings, the wrongness and the unreality became more stark to him. 

"Eönwë—have we learned anything else of the Enemy's actions of late?"

"Only that which we are used to: his wanton destruction." Eönwë did not need to describe this particular activity in more detail. The Maiar all knew the forms his destruction took, too well.  
"What would you have done, if the Enemy found you?"

"I would have gone from him, as quickly as I could. Manwë was waiting for me."

"What if he had spoken to you?

"I would not have listened," said Eönwë, but his expression was softening. "Mairon, did I worry you?"

"Yes, of course I'm concerned! He can't be trusted. You don't know what he might do."

Eönwë did not disagree. No one could predict the Enemy's actions, though many had tried. "I did not encounter him, and I will not go again, unless need demands it. Someone had to travel to see into the heart of his realm."

"How do you know for certain that he did not mark you?"

Eönwë smiled softly. "Manwë has made sure that I am well. He did not truly want me to go. I think he would have gone himself instead, if he could do so without drawing the attention of the Enemy. But the Maiar are so numerous there. They may pass more freely, because he seeks Maiar—and there are still a number who roam and serve no masters."

What Eönwë said was reasonable, but Mairon was no less troubled. The herald of Manwë himself would stand out more than other Maiar. Could Manwë be sure of knowing when Melkor's influence had fallen on a Maia? Mairon's concern made him rash, and he spoke without considering his words fully. "Eönwë—have you ever kept anything from your master?"

"Kept from him—? You mean, about this? No, I wouldn't have done that." Nothing else Mairon had said had given Eönwë pause, but now he reached out to briefly touch his spirit to Mairon's. "I am telling you everything, too. It was not a pleasant sight, but ho harm was done to me." 

"I'm glad. I thought there might be something you didn't want to say. To spare me." Mairon wanted to explain more openly. He wanted to tell him, but he couldn't allow himself to say too much. "When the Enemy destroyed the mountains, Curumo and I sought to repair them without telling Aulë. We wanted to repair the damage before our master could be unsettled by the news of it. To be of good service and spare him distress. Perhaps we should have told him—sooner."

"Perhaps you should have, but you meant well." It was likely Eönwë never had held anything back from Manwë, not even for a moment. Not as Mairon had, with his master. Eönwë took time mulling over the concept, studying Mairon more carefully than Mairon liked. "The situation is resolved, isn't it?

"So it is."

"And you have made it right with Aulë, so there is no lasting harm."

Mairon could not stop himself from pressing. "But—have you ever done something of that kind? Maybe not this time, after you went north, but before?"

Again, Eönwë took his time answering the question. "No, I would not say I have. Not intentionally. Surely there are things I have thought and seen that I did not think to tell him specifically. Does it yet trouble you, that you did not tell Aulë?"

He could not deny that it did, although from Eönwë's perspective, it was likely no great matter. "I do think of it. What I might have done differently. I wished to spare him from anger, and to deal with the issue myself."

If Eönwë thought his concern was slight, he gave no indication. "It's not wrong to wish to protect others from harm. But be careful not to put yourself at risk by doing so. That is why your master was displeased, not because he perceives some fault in you. He feared for you. I am sure he would not want you to worry now."

Eönwë had put himself in the way of harm for his master. Was Mairon not doing the same? If he could talk to Melkor—if he could glean more of Melkor's plan through conversation with him, then that would be for the benefit of all. It would not be so different from what Eönwë had done, for Manwë. 

"Mairon. Ever you are thinking, criticizing, concerned and careful of each detail—and that is admirable of you. But you should show yourself a little mercy as well."

"Should I? Mercy… I do not think I need it, Eönwë. Not in the way you mean. I am happy to work. It is what I like best."

"Mairon—give me your hand."

Mairon smiled in response. "And why should I do that?"

"You don't need to ask. Trust me."

He did. He held out his hand, and Eönwë took it. Air joining with fire, it increased them both in size and power. They complimented each other. They expanded and rose into the sky, bright and swift. Birds flew with them, rising from Yavanna's gardens, eager to soar high on the winds he and Eönwë created. The two of them had always been close; they had been born in the same thought, so near each other. Ilúvatar must have intended them to be together.

Mairon watched the birds flying, and, moved by Eönwë's winds, his flames took on the shape of wings. They were followed by Eönwë's own wings forming, echoing Mairon's, but palely, white like the ghosts of the flames. They flew together in a spiral, rising ever higher, and as they did so, they merged into each other, becoming a single spirit of air and fire. Below them, on one side, the sea stretched out forever, fluid and shifting; the other side was land, solid and more fixed. Winds flowed from the sea and joined with Eönwë, in joy at his rising. These breezes wrapped around them both, salt-sharp and unfettered. They brought the sea with them, and a measure of its wildness, driving Mairon and Eönwë higher. Mairon felt his sense of self begin to slip away.

It was not like merging with his siblings, who were also of fire. With them, Mairon became greater than himself, but he was still himself, all flame. Eönwë altered his basic nature, changing him as they shared themselves with each other. He was dimly aware of Eönwë's thoughts and feelings flickering by him, like his ethereal wings. This was the purest and most effective way for Ainur to communicate. To become each other, in a temporary—but very real—way. It was easiest for Mairon to do this with his master and his siblings, but it was invigorating to join with an Ainur of another element and become a new being.

It would have been so easy for him to flow completely into Eönwë, to share everything with him. To send his fiery doubts and aspirations out into Eönwë's bright, flowing winds. He could have allowed his secrets to be caught up and whirled away, lifted from his heart. It was possible for Maiar to lessen their burdens this way. If he were to do that, then Eönwë would know all. Eönwë would read his uncertainties and learn all that he had kept from his master—for love of his master, but also for himself. Eönwë might judge him and find him wanting, and that would be a new burden for him to bear.

He was undecided. The prospect of relief was so tempting. Maiar were not meant to contain such doubts and troubles. Eönwë might understand him better than he knew. Eönwë might be able to help him. He had no definite reason to believe that Eönwë would do otherwise, when his friend had never failed him. He could take that risk, and wouldn't it feel better to do what he was meant to do: join with his fellow Ainur and trust in them? That was what Eönwë was asking of him. Something so simple, yet so good. 

Yes, he was not meant to suffer alone. Letting go of his secrets would be the easiest action, because it was the most natural one—

Eönwë drew up short, his wings stilling, his merge with Mairon incomplete as they hung together in midair. "I am sorry, Mairon. The Valar have assembled, and my lord Manwë has need of me. He is calling."

"I understand. You must tell them what you have seen." Mairon composed himself as Eönwë withdrew, the single being they had almost formed splitting into two again. Fire and air.

"Yes, I must—but I wished to speak with you, also."

"I always wish to speak with you," said Mairon.

"You seemed so lost in thought today, and I want to know what you think about so deeply."

Mairon nodded. He should say the right thing in response, as he so often did, but he was not sure what the right thing was.

"There are times you think too much, Mairon." Eönwë's eyes flickered, softly blue. "You need not keep your thoughts to yourself. There are those who would be glad to share in them with you."

"I know it. But I do find joy in thinking." Though it had brought him far less joy of late.

"A joy shared is a joy doubled," said Eönwë, before he turned to go. His eyes flashed, and a banner appeared in the claws that had materialized to hold it. His body became long and sinuous. His going was a rustle of wings and a rushing of wind. 

Mairon watched him go. Eönwë let out a long, bell-like cry that echoed across the land, the song of the herald for his king. It was a beautiful sound, and it lingered, a reminder of the greatness and concern of the Valar. Mairon had always loved it, and he sang a soft song in response—lower and warmer. It was good to sing, to express yourself. If he had sung more for Eönwë; if he had shared his doubts, he would be unburdened now. He had hesitated too long.

Eönwë bore Manwë's banner, and Mairon did not envy him that task. He would rather be in the forges than holding aloft a banner. Most of Aulë's Maiar felt as he did, in that respect. Mairon did not question that. He did wonder, not for the first time, whether it would be more efficient for Aulë to organize the labor in the forges by delegating greater power to some of his Maiar, assigning the supervisory roles. A similar structure had benefited Manwë, and it was a sensible idea. It would be natural to give Mairon more power to wield, if his power was greater.

Mairon quickly pushed that possibility from his mind. While worth considering, that was not his primary concern. He was not self-motivated. It was not that he wanted greater influence. He was concerned with the good of all. The singular role that Eönwë had been given had enabled him to aid everyone.

He watched Eönwë until his friend disappeared from sight, then he turned to face the north. Mairon envisioned the far-off, vast excavations in the midst of the icy waste created by Melkor's consuming, unconquerable cold. No light reached that forsaken place. Eönwë had traveled so far. He had seen that bleak landscape himself. In Mairon's merging with Eönwë, flickers of memory had shown him the sight: the black depths opening in the midst of the white waste. Eönwë had seen it, but he had only been able to gaze from a distance. He had not been able to learn more through other means—such as speaking to Melkor himself.

A strange and dangerous idea… that he might converse with Melkor again to glean more information from him. His master would forbid him from pursuing that course of action. He knew that without asking. Aulë would consider it far too great a risk, yet if Mairon were to learn a few of Melkor's secrets, they would gain an invaluable advantage in combating the works of the Enemy. How much more quickly they could progress without being constantly undermined and attacked, repeatedly forced to rebuild after Melkor's fits of spite and ruin. 

Melkor would not hesitate to attempt to convert a Maia to his cause, with words or gifts. Mairon disliked thinking of himself as a target for Melkor's corruption. He did not view himself as vulnerable or corruptible in any circumstance. As distasteful as the idea was, there was an advantage in the position he found himself in. He could be careful and cunning. Melkor was too arrogant to imagine that his own egotism could be used against him. Mairon had been given no promise that Melkor would speak to him again, but wasn't it true that the Enemy was ruthlessly stubborn? He would not stop until he was definitively repelled. 

Yes, he would make another attempt.

Mairon blinked and shivered slightly. Staring northward, he began to feel unusually cold, but his resolve had strengthened. Perhaps it was for the best that he had not shared his innermost thoughts with Eönwë.


	5. Deep Caverns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm sorry this update took me so long. While I was tweaking my outline, I came up with an idea for the ending that I thought would improve the story overall. Unfortunately, this meant I had to go back and re-edit all the previous chapters. The story now takes place in an earlier time period: during the First War with Melkor, before the Years of the Lamps. 
> 
> The course of events in the first chapters more or less remains the same. The major changes to the plot involved chapters I hadn't written yet, so there's no need to reread everything if you've already read the previous chapters.

Mairon could not blot out the vision of the north Eönwë had shown him: the white waste torn open to reveal a black hole beneath. The jarring image resurfaced at odd moments, no matter how he tried to banish it from his thoughts. The crater was wide and ugly, a gaping mouth eager to consume. The tear in the earth had been so poorly made, jagged and unstable. The memory unsettled Mairon, but he could not help but criticize the composition of the excavation. Was that how carelessly Melkor's Maiar worked—or had Melkor ripped open that chasm himself, applying sheer force rather than skill? Undeniably, there were better ways—

His critical assessment had no sooner begun than he halted it immediately. He could not allow himself to consider how to improve on the works of the Enemy. The idea was far beneath him. It was enough to know that the means of the Enemy were tainted, as the Enemy was. 

The Valar did not act immediately on the news that Melkor had begun to excavate his realm in the north, although they warned their Maiar of the possible dangers. Valar and Maiar alike swore that they would be ceaselessly vigilant. They would continue in their current course: monitoring the progression of Melkor's work and signs of his evil influence. Challenging him directly was judged unfeasible. The Enemy's power was great,. The Valar feared the losses they might face, and the risk that the greater work might be warped farther, perhaps marred beyond the possibility of repair. 

Mairon understood the reluctance of the Valar, but was theirs the right decision? Was it not better to strike Melkor before he could finish his fortifications? The longer they waited, the greater the possibility he would increase his forces or develop new methods of attack. Mairon was wary, but the Valar were wise and knew much he did not. As all Maiar had a voice within the song, they would listen if he gave his opinion, but they were unlikely to follow his suggestion after their decision had been made. He did not share his thoughts with them. Instead, he would do his part to combat the Enemy, without his master's permission to do so.

Mairon had been so confident he would see the Enemy again. Each time he departed Almaren, he remained watchful to the point of apprehension. He had never before been so alert and anxious—turning at every sound or flicker of motion, distracted from his work by questions or suspicions. He had once been able to work for great spans of time without a single interruption, losing himself in his industry and rejoicing in his labors. 

Mairon had unwillingly learned how to pause. He had taken up the practice to regularly survey the landscape around him. He felt the need to scrutinize each feature, great or small. He could see far, so there was much to consider. The land that was unformed or marred stretched out for many leagues before him. He scanned the sky, conscious of each shift in its color, or any disturbance altering the light. He had learned how effectively and insidiously Melkor could conceal his energy. His darkness could become void with a thought. Had Mairon not experienced it, he would not have believed it.

As soon as he was free to speak openly again, he must tell his master. He hoped that day would come soon, but he could not rush or push too far, if his plan were to be successful. If the Enemy did come to him, what would Mairon say? How could he glean the necessary information without making his intentions clear? He was unused to the practice of saying one thing and meaning another, which came so easily to the Enemy. 

He waited, but Melkor did not come.

Had he been mistaken in his prediction—had Melkor lost interest in him? Had Melkor only meant to unnerve him and slow Aulë's work by introducing doubt into his servant's mind? He would not truly object to the loss of Melkor's attention, but he could not believe it. That would be so much more muted an attempt at disturbance than his usual acts. No, it did not seem like him at all.

Mairon remained alert, but he was so limited in his actions, alertness was his only optim. If that was to be his lot for the foreseeable future, he would endure it, without allowing himself to be unduly distracted. If he was forced to pair industry with constant attentiveness, he would do so. It was simple wisdom to remain watchful when there was a possibility that the Enemy could appear, and he would be more watchful than any other Maia. If this was a test of his will, he would not fail.

Still, Melkor did not come.

Whenever Aulë called him back home to his lands, Mairon went willingly. He did not object to the interruption of his work, because it came as a relief. The tension, the waiting, preyed on him. The vastness of the world no longer struck him as purely an expanse of beauty with its bounty of wonders. Not when any portion of it might conceal the Enemy in disguise. 

Mairon looked upon craggy mountains and broad valleys with suspicion for the first time. Unease made him quiet. He did not commune with his siblings as readily as he had before. He flowed into them when communion and conversation were called for, but now he had to hold a piece of himself apart, away from them. It was as if there was a sharp, solid jewel buried within his flame, one he had to constantly grasp tightly and keep hidden.

"Are you troubled, Mairon?" Aulë asked him after one of his many homecomings. "Come here, and let me see you."

His master's voice was gentle, but Mairon could not prevent himself from wondering whether this was a rebuke. "I am troubled, my lord, but it is no great matter."

"It is a great matter to me, if it concerns you."

"It is only the work, my lord." What good would it do to trouble Aulë in turn? "I am anxious that our progress will be interrupted again. We do not know why the Enemy's interference has paused."

"It may be that other matters have distracted him, but I understand your concern. Mairon—I know you do not like to do it, but if you wish, you can cease that labor and take on another."

A mountain could be raised with relative speed, but there was so much more to the great plan than shaping the peak. The vision of the music was broad and wide, but it was also intricate and detailed. There were so many smaller features that made up a mountain range, inside and out. It was not only a matter of the stone's surface. All the inner structures had to be planned and executed as exactingly. Mairon took a particular interest in the caves and rock formations to be hidden within. There were numerous minerals to form, of varying colors and compositions, which would gleam and glimmer below the earth. He took pride in perfecting their shine. That joy, too, had faded for him, but the work was his responsibility, and he did not want to give it up. "You're right, my lord. I would not like to cease my labors."

Aulë laughed. "As I expected. You do not need rest, but you may take time for it whenever you desire. Remember, there is no haste in our work. There is love."

"I know it." He did love the work, and he was confident in his ability to excel. That was why he would take a great risk to protect it. "I promise I'll rest, if I feel I should." Aulë smiled and enfolded him in his arms, and Mairon took a measure of comfort from that.

When Aulë spoke, Mairon listened. He wished to please his master. It would not do to make Aulë worry. This entire effort was meant to spare his master grief, so Mairon attempted to hide his concerns. He followed Aulë's orders and respected his suggestions without error—except for matters directly concerning his plan. 

Aulë wanted him to rest. He would rest.

The cave network below Aulë's lands was vast, expanding far below the forges, and his Maiar had not yet explored the full length and breadth of it. Most of the gems and ores and other wonders Ilúvatar had hidden all throughout the earth lay undiscovered. For Ilúvatar, in his grace and mystery, had filled every portion of the world with innumerable treasures. What a joy it was to look for them, to see the beauty conjured by the most secret phrases of the Music. 

In the midst of his trials, Mairon's urge to explore resurfaced. Did it not count as rest and enjoyment to investigate the caves? There was an aspect of work in the endeavor, but Mairon took great pleasure in descending into the deeps. There, he found new substances and new shapes that could be of use, or teach him new lessons of the music: its nature and endless possibilities. 

The caves went down so deep, Mairon did not know their ultimate limit. If he traveled far enough through those twisting passages, some of which would be better described as narrow fissures, he would cross the borders of Aulë's realm and penetrate depths far below the floor of the sea. These, too, were the Valar's hands and and under their protection, but they represented the outer limits of the realm. The depths were as gleaming and wonderful as they were dark and unknown. 

If Mairon sought solitude, the caves were the perfect refuge. There, Aulë would not notice that he was troubled. He did not want to wander without Aulë's leave, but it was not unusual for his Maiar to seek the lower caves and their marvels. The profound depths welcomed him with their remoteness, but he did not venture too far outward. Beneath the sea floor, Aulë's influence dwindled and the sea-wildness began to take hold, causing changes and uncertainties Mairon hoped to avoid.

There was no shortage of passages to explore without ranging too far. Even if he was not mining, there were natural rock formations, profound waters, lakes of fire, and vast caverns to discover and admire. Mairon could not truly become lost; he could dispense with a material form and pass through rock to speed upward to the surface, but he _felt_ lost among these silent miracles.

He was so lost and apart, he expected no interruption. Other Maiar were as likely to wander here as he was, but the caves were so wide-ranging, he was unlikely to encounter another, unless they were intentionally seeking him. This near-complete isolation was pleasant. Had he always found solitude so enjoyable? He must have. There was no reason his preferences would have changed. Yes, he had always loved the caves and their varied mysteries, their secrets.

He could lower his guard slightly, here where it was safe. He could let his self-awareness fade so that he could join his spirit to the earth and fire. He lingered at the mouth of a yawning cavern, to admire and feel the form the rock had taken here—it rose into a sharp peak which almost brushed the cave ceiling: an underground mountain. It was a smooth and elegant mountain, almost symmetrical, and it glimmered where Mairon's light touched it, as if it were carved from a gemstone. He could not name this material, and he sent his spirit into it to better understand it.

"Yours was much more impressive." Such a casually offered remark, but it came as a complete shock in the darkness, in the deep.

Mairon froze. He did not want to turn and see who had spoken so suddenly, and in such a low voice, but he forced himself to move.

The dark form within the shadows was barely indistinguishable from them. Only its eyes stood out, managing to glitter without giving off light. A moment later, it smiled, but its teeth were so completely dark, Mairon could barely make out the gesture. He did not need to see the figure clearly to know who it was. There was only one being in creation this could be.

For all Mairon's preparations, for all that he had steeled himself and cultivated a practice of endless vigilance, he was both startled and fearful in the presence of the Enemy once again. He did not speak. All the gathered words he had selected, practiced, and polished had flown from him.

Melkor did not so much emerge from the shadows as extend them in Mairon's direction, invading the light his flames cast. "I did as you asked," he said, with an inclination of his head. Shadows spilled from the crown of his head and fell around his shoulders, sinuous and constantly in motion.

"As I asked?" Mairon addressed the Enemy out of surprise rather than acquiescence. 

" _Leave me in peace_ , you said. So I did. Have you been at peace, Maia? I hope you have."

Mairon's affront at this was so complete, it silenced him. How could he dare— _At peace?_ How could he have known peace after being troubled by Melkor's intrusion? True, if had told Aulë all, it would have granted him relief, but no Maia would remain untouched by conversation with the Enemy.

Melkor nodded as he went on, his shadows stretching out to take up more of Mairon's light. "I thought your peace would be less difficult to disturb here, within the safety of your own home. So I decided to visit you here, instead. Was it not thoughtful of me?"

What kind of logic— "How did you enter this place? It is forbidden."

"Oh—" Melkor raised a hand and swept it to one side dismissively. Shadows followed, chasing his fingers. "Such things are easy for me. No place is forbidden to me. You may let your master know, if you like. I'm sure he would be interested to hear it."

Mairon stared at him. Melkor took and held his gaze. Melkor was not in physical contact with him, but his presence felt like a grasp: tight, almost stifling. Mairon could not struggle against it, because it was not tangible. 

"You know I meant for you to leave me and never return," said Mairon slowly. He had been waiting for Melkor to reappear so he could carry out his plan, but now that he was in his presence, he wanted nothing more than for him to vanish again. Along with the shadows, dread seeped from the Enemy ceaselessly.

"Did I know that? I must have forgotten it." He was still smiling. The teeth he had manifested were sharp and had grown in size. Melkor maintained a relatively small size; he was not currently much larger than Mairon, though his shadows added significantly to his volume, and his teeth kept growing, his smile expanding. 

"Why did you come here?" Mairon asked. "Why did you seek me out?"

Melkor's smile persisted in the face of Mairon's unwelcoming tone. "I saw you on the shore," he said. "The first time. I was not looking for you then, or for any Maia in particular. I did not expect to see you there, out on your own. You and one other—but your flame burned brighter, did it not? You had deceived your master. I could see that on you. Shining from you. Do you know that?"

As well as Mairon knew he should be careful, he felt defensive. "It was only to help him."

"You and I are so alike."

"You and I—? We're nothing alike!"

"On the contrary, I have never encountered a Maia so like me, who was not already mine. And I consider that high praise."

Mairon considered it an insult. "It is not— How can you say such a thing?"

"I have been watching you, Maia. Since I glimpsed you on the shore. I saw the mountain you made, when you thought no one was watching. A towering peak, so tall as to be improbable. So absurd, it made those around it look small. All ordinary mountains were pale and unremarkable by comparison. I had never seen a mountain like that before. An unthinkable height. I do not believe it was a part of the Creator's plan. Was it, Mairon?"

Melkor had grown steadily closer, and Mairon could not move, transfixed, his flames flickering as the Enemy spoke his name. Part of him wanted to flee, but he had not forgotten his strategy. He could let this conversation continue, if only for a brief time. "I was experimenting."

"Had your master told you to do so?"

"He did not forbid it. It did no harm. I wanted to see what I could do, that was all." 

"Did you tell him what it was you wanted to see?"

Mairon did not wish to answer this question. "You should not be here."

Melkor laughed, softly. Mairon had been too distracted to track his approach, and suddenly he was shockingly close. "I saw what you wanted to see," said Melkor, "and I thought it was beautiful. I love your mountain. It shows promise, and more than that, originality. There is so little of that here! The vision, the music—it could use improvement, some embellishments." 

Melkor's words betrayed his complete disregard for everything Aulë and his Maiar had been working toward. Mairon tried to keep his disgust hidden, his expression and his flames neutral. "What improvements do you intend to make?"

Dread and shadows aside, Melkor's tone of speech remained light, and could have been described as _friendly_ , if Melkor were not the one speaking. "Let me see…" He reached out a hand, pointing at the peak in the center of the cavern before them. Suddenly, sharp spikes lanced out from the mountain on all sides. Careening at odd angles and zig-zagging like lightning, they struck and pierced the cavern walls, creating a formation both menacing and unnatural. For all that the Maiar shaped the world, the purpose of doing so was not to impress one's own will upon it, but to make it harmonious and hospitable to life, to show the earth how to grow and change on its own in time. The music would serve as a framework and a rhythm for the earth's slow dance. The work of Maiar was to teach lessons, not give commands.

What Melkor had done was not that. He had ripped the stone from its formation and created a shape that was not meant to be beautiful or useful. It was meant to alarm and distress him. 

Mairon felt it and shuddered in pain. "You cannot do that here," he said, pained that his master's caves had been not only touched, but _altered_ by the enemy.

The rock continued to move at Melkor's command, twisting and sending out more barbs. The very surface of it had changed, taking on a sickly sheen. "Oh, but you asked! Here's an example of my changes. My overall plan is not defined and finished. I don't limit myself that way. I work in the moment, as ideas come to me."

"What ideas?" Mairon saw an opportunity to move toward his goal, if a short distance. His agitation would not stop him from taking the chance. 

"Would you like to see more of my works, Mairon?"

He both did and very much did not. He wanted more information, but he sensed that this question would be dangerous to answer in the affirmative. "I wondered what they were. I do not wish to see them."

"That is a shame. I would very much like to show you."

"As I said, I do not wish to see."

"It would be so easy. All you'd have to do is step into my shadow." Melkor raised his arm again. This time, the gesture created a fall of darkness, like a robe, hanging from his wrist down to the cave floor. "I'm sure you would appreciate them."

Mairon drew back, repulsed by that thick shadow beneath Melkor's arm. There was both a depth and a solidness to it, defying reason. "I doubt I would."

Melkor laughed again. His laughter was as sinuous and intrusive as his shadows. "Oh, don't be so quick to say so. As I said, we are similar." 

"I fail to see it."

"We both desire our own visions. And why shouldn't we? If we were given the ability to formulate our plans, if we are able to contemplate such ideas and ambitions, then it cannot be wrong for us to pursue them."

Mairon could not allow himself to entertain that line of thought. "Your vision only destroys the work of others."

"I can see why you would believe that, from your perspective, but I promise you there is so much more to it."

"Such as?"

"It would be far easier for me to show you." He swung his hand. His shadows undulated and expanded the very dense shadow beneath his arm. 

"I will not go anywhere with you."

"Oh no? Then, you need not. I can show you my vision, if you will open yourself to me."

The idea was appalling, more so than the thought of going with him. To open himself to _Melkor_ , to share of himself as he would with Aulë or Eönwë or his siblings? That was an act of trust and love, neither of which he had for the Enemy. "Do you expect me to allow that?"

"No, not at all! But surely it's no harm to ask."

It was harm, and Melkor knew it. "You have no right to make that request. We are here within my master's realm. You should respect his authority and his Maiar, although I know you will not."

He did not expect Melkor to take his words seriously, but he also did not expect him to chuckle and say, "I like it when you start scolding me."

The words so confounded Mairon, his flames flared. "What—?"

"No one else scolds me so. I wouldn't have thought I'd enjoy it. I would punish another Maia for such insolence, but— No, I like it. Do it again."

"I—" Mairon was about to say he would not do as Melkor wished in any sense, but that would mean he was agreeing not to censor Melkor, and that he also would not do. "What do you mean to accomplish by that? You're being absurd." 

"Yes, when you forget yourself and speak freely, that's when you start to become interesting."

Mairon had been frustrated at every turn while trying to gleam useful information from the conversation. He suspected Melkor knew this, because Melkor was frustrating. "If you have come here solely to antagonize me, then you can leave me in peace once more." Melkor did have a way of making him forget himself—because he was intentionally aggravating. Mairon broke off before he said anything more, afraid he had gone too far this time. As light as Melkor's tone could be, there was nothing light about him, and every encounter with him was dangerous.

Melkor, for the first time, appeared to be the one taken aback. "You will tell me what to do again? Do you think I will agree to follow your command, not once, but twice?"

Mairon did not think so, and he snapped, "I have told you, but I don't expect you to do anything I ask."

Melkor made a thoughtful noise. He was not a being Mairon considered _thoughtful_ , but he made a show of feigning it. "You keep telling me what to do."

Yes, he did. Why was that? It was not what he had planned or hoped to do. He had meant to draw Melkor out with subtlety, not argue with him outright. He hadn't learned any useful information from their conversation. This had been a setback.

"I—will allow it," said Melkor. 

"You have no right—" Mairon was about to say that Melkor had no right to allow or forbid anything in Aulë's realm, but once more, Melkor had disappeared, or seemed to. The shadows surrounding him now were simply shadows, retreating from Mairon's light in the same way they always had. 

"I do not care what you allow!" said Mairon to the darkness, his flames flaring. It was no good. Melkor was, as usual, not listening. Mairon took a few moments to steady himself and tame his fire. This anger moving through him was so hot and unfamiliar. The sensation was unsettling, too heated. It made him feel his control was tenuous, at best. 

He turned to regard what Melkor had made of the underground mountain. It no longer shone like a jewel. Melkor's corruption had continued to spread, and cracks had opened in the surface of the stone. The overall effect was broken and discordant. A now-familiar feeling of dread rose from the opening cracks, a foul mist spreading through the cavern. Mairon could not leave it in this state. What would his master say, if he sensed it? What if one of the other Maiar stumbled across it? He could not allow that to happen. 

Mairon reached out to the marred mountain with his spirit, and what he sensed was disruption and decay. He had dealt with Melkor's destruction before, but this was different. His will was so concentrated here, it was palpable. The trespass was recent and so specific, his power concentrated and potent. The particles of the stone disintegrated as Mairon tried to hold them and reform them. He could not allow the mountain to continue on its course to chaos, or the chaos would continue to spread—he must fight to save it. Fortunately, he was better equipped to do so than any other Maia, but the work would be difficult and taxing. 

"I will not forgive you for this," said Mairon, as he began his battle. He had forgotten himself again, enough to speak sharply to the Enemy. His flames, so recently tamed, sprang up again. "I should not have to mend what you destroy. You are unfit to be a Vala! I will rejoice on the day of your defeat."

There was no answer. Melkor had gone.


End file.
